Fortune's Fool
by Scribbler
Summary: Life does not run smoothly. Especially if you live at the Institute. Even more so if you're part of the Baby Brigade, otherwise known as the New Mutants. However, life up to now has been a bed of roses compared to what's crawling out of the sewers.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer – X-Men: Evolution belongs to Marvel and KidsWB, not me. This is written without intent to make money, but with oodles of respect for those who birthed the original products.

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'Fortune's Fool' By Scribbler

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Prologue

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The sewers were pitch for the most part – a blackness lanced through only by thin pinpricks of light. These were at strategic points where workmen needed to access ducts and other underground workstations that only they knew the true purpose of. Other than this, darkness reigned.

Curved walls ran with slime and dense lichen sprouted from the brickwork, sucking all required nutrients from the filth. Waste abounded in all tunnels that made up the subterranean warren. Sometimes the scurrying of rats broke the monotony, but thick silence was usually the norm in this dark, dank place, where sunlight never ventured and people seldom went. Even when they did cross the threshold, only those who knew the way and could stomach the stench took refuge there.

Yet now a curious splashing could be heard, accompanied by the sound of ragged breathing.

Around the corner bounded a small figure, hand pressed against the wall for support. Foul water splashed up all about it every time it took a step.

It paused; head raised and chest rattling as it cast around to take stock of the surroundings. Pointed ears flicked back and forth in agitation. It seemed torn, unsure of which way to go.

"That way!" A loud voice rang out from the passage just left, and the ears lay flat as the figure picked an arbitrary direction and started running again.

No sooner had the spot been vacated then a trio of shapes followed after, yelling as they sighted their quarry ahead. It heard them and dropped to all fours, able to move faster that way. It kicked up spray and dodged left and right as it had been trained, so as to confuse the pursuers in the poor light.

Unfortunately, the one who had taught that manoeuvre was amongst the three, as well as two others also ruthlessly trained in the ways of escape and pursuit. The tactics did little but slow the prey down,

A carefully aimed knife went singing into the water just inches sort of its hand.

It relinquished the strategy and opted for a flat out gallop.

It nearly lost its footing as it turned the corner into a narrow passage devoid of even faint slivers of light, and clawed through the grunge like a mad thing to maintain its grip. The squat form disappeared into the gloom with a scrape and a hiss.

Then, quite suddenly the splashing of frenzied footfalls fell away into deathly quiet.

The hunters slowed as they drew near. The foremost stooped to retrieve where her knife had fallen. She was a tall woman, of broad stature, with dishevelled black hair and a piratical patch covering what remained of one eye. The knife dripped; an almost musical noise in the intense silence, and she gripped it in one hand, signalling to her cohorts that they should stop.

The remaining pair looked at her quizzically.

She motioned that they get behind her, as she slotted the blade into a notch at the end of a metallic bo-staff and crept forward.

This passage was a dead-end, they all knew, and the water barely rippled as it moved around their ankles. They were no strangers to the upper tunnels, though they rarely ventured there if they could help it. They worked speedily and efficiently, not unlike a pack of wolves.

The eye-patched female pressed her back against the wall and glared at the others to do the same. She was evidently the leader of the tiny group, judging by the way she carried herself and exuded authority. Her breathing barely rose above a whisper, yet her pulse raced with a mixture of anger and adrenaline.

She schooled herself into a state of readiness and counted to three with a warrior's patience.

Then she leapt out with her weapon readied in hands that clearly knew how to use it.

Except that there was nobody there.

For a moment she faltered, but only for a moment. The two behind her cocked their heads and blinked, the gloom providing little problem for their specialised eyesight. That was why she'd chosen them for this chase, after all. That, and they could keep up with relative ease when she was in full-blown hunt mode.

Imperceptibly flicking a finger, she moved off. They followed her as a tightly knit unit. The only exit was the tunnel mouth. Without having to say a word, one of them kept an eye on it. He was a burly male, with rounded shoulders and gangly limbs that, when offset with his chalk-white skin, made him look like nothing so much as a walking corpse.

The other two sets of eyes roved around, methodically searching for their apparently escaped prey. It was as if they picked apart the shadows with their gaze and then sent them whimpering away when they proved fruitless.

The passage was tapered, ending in a small vertical grate choked with refuse. The walls seemed to press in on them on all sides like a concertina. Yet theirs was the advantage, since nobody, no matter how slight, could get past them in such a constricted space without being noticed. If they had their way, one of those contained in here would never leave it alive.

The leader held up a hand and they halted. The last of their unit, a burly female just an inch or two shy of the male's height, but with a compact musculature he lacked, glanced up at her from beneath a gash of black hair. "What?" she hissed in an oddly sibilant voice.

The leader said nothing, but tightened her grip on her bo so that the metal squeaked under calloused palms. Her hyper-keen hearing strained, as did her remaining eye, and a shadow briefly passed over her features.

On impulse she looked up.

She let out a low growl, as something small and furry dropped from where it had been clinging to the arched ceiling like a limpet.

It landed on the other female, a mass of flashing teeth and claws, until the leader quickly brought up her bo and swung it like a club. Metal connected with skull, and the snarling figure went flying with a sickening crunch. It landed further up the passage, rolled once, and then didn't move again.

The eye-patched woman spared a momentary look at her companion. Both her cheeks, pasty from lack of sunlight, were scored with deep cuts. Blood leaked profusely, and a half-moon slash was perilously close to her left eye, but the eye itself had been mercifully left functioning. She'd scar, but live to heal, which was more than could be said for some.

The leader transferred her gaze back to the inert bundle of rags and yellow fur, half-submerged not three feet from her boots.

Ever the pragmatist, she approached with caution, bo at the ready and mentally checking off the cache of armaments secreted about her person. She was skilled in each, but the bo remained her preferred choice. She was deadly accurate with it both in and leaving her hands. Not that she left bodies lying around if she could avoid it, but she hadn't survived for so long down here without learning tricks no person should ever have to know.

She inched closer.

Still nothing moved.

Experimentally, she extended the bo and tapped at its side, but stepped back hurriedly as the 'body' sprang up with a snarl ran at her. Her reflexes were better than most, and the suspicion of playing possum stood her in good stead. Even so, despite this preparation she only had time to raise her arm as the shape struck, a veritable typhoon of whirling talons and gnashing teeth. There was no time for a counter attack. Sharp fangs fastened in her wrist like a steel trap.

She grunted in pain and turned to ram her unwanted burden up against the wall, although whether she was trying to dislodge it or breaks its spine was open to debate. Yet it was locked on tight and refused to let go, growling around the mouthful of torn flesh and welling blood.

The other female made to pry it off, but instead the figure abruptly turned on her, launching itself quite suddenly to land squarely on her chest. The force and unpredicted nature of the onslaught sent her crashing backwards into the mire.

She thrashed as a hand pressed to her throat, keeping her mouth and nose underwater, and searched blindly to push it off. Yet the pressure remained, and her struggles weakened visibly after a few oxygen-deprived seconds.

The eye-patched woman recovered rapidly from her attack, though her arm still dripped blood. She rushed forward, bo set. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the taller male do likewise, and they moved into a pincer-like assault, coming at the small figure from two different sides – she from near the grate, while his lanky form blocked the entrance and only exit.

The small figure looked up, furry face slicked with water and green slime. In the space of a few short seconds the hunted had become the hunter, and now the two pursuers sought to turn the tables back in their favour.

Yet instead of running from their attacks, the fanged mouth seemed almost to smile. The owner exerted more pressure on the other female's neck. Bubbles rose and popped into the remnants of a choked yell around them, and the strange toothy grin widened.

Too late, the leader female realised what it was doing. By the time she unleashed a warning cry the transformation had begun.

The other female's legs lengthened, joints reversing, and a massive waving tail ridged with wicked looking spines whipped out of the water. Since she couldn't see to steer clear of anyone, the lashing thing knocked the leader back. She collided with the grate, metal squares biting into whatever flesh they could reach. She retained her grip of her bo, but she could take no more than three steps forward, as the swelling bulk of her companion filled the narrow tunnel.

She caught a flash of slick yellow and grinning fangs just before bulging lizardine scales obscured her vision completely.

The transforming female's head broke the surface. It was now no longer even vaguely humanoid, but that of a roaring dragon straight out of a storybook, replete with roughly hooked snout and flashing gold eyes. The furry figure had wisely jumped from her chest when she first began to shift, and now stood looking audaciously up at her.

She rumbled deep in her throat, trying to right herself and do violence to the one who had nearly drowned her in a few inches of water, only to realise as her leader had that the transformation had been orchestrated solely because of the narrowness of the passage. The limited space ensured that she couldn't move, thereby taking out two of their team in one go and leaving the third at a disadvantage.

A frustrated bellow followed this insight, and though she started shifting back to human it was too little too late.

The wan male swung with a ham-like fist, but the small figure was lithe and darting and easily avoided the blow. He was no fighter; not really, and his reaction time was rather slow. It ducked under his arm and lunged at his chest, but he raised his knee at the last second and caught it a lucky, if crushing blow to the ribs. The figure gasped openly, struggling for air that was quickly expelled in a growling, yet peculiarly feminine screech.

It dropped to all fours, crouching in the muck and taking a fraction of a second to calculate its next move. The ears flicked back at the familiar schlooping that signalled the change from dragon back to human, and it bared its fangs in a silent snarl. Then it turned to dash back up the tunnel, towards the dead-end where there was no escape.

The tall male blinked in confusion, and hesitated in chasing after, unwilling to abandon his guard of the exit but not understanding what the quarry planned. He watched through narrowed eyes as the furry figure leapt, deftly evading what remained of the dragon-woman's claws to land on her diminishing belly. There it spun on its heel and leapt again in the other direction, using the extra height to propel itself – not upward, but in a sliding dive that took both by surprise.

The lanky male was knocked off his feet as a pair of clawed hands bit into his shoulders and the figure vaulted over his bald head, spine brushing the ceiling and leaving several hairs in the lichen.

"The exit!" their leader cried, able to see now but incapable of actually doing anything.

Yet it was too late, and their prey raced away even as they hurriedly regrouped.

The furry figure was little more than a blur as it arrowed through the network of tunnels. There was blood in its mouth and the coppery tang pervaded its tongue, digging into the nooks and crannies of its mouth and wrapping its fangs in red mist. Something stirred deep in its belly, niggling like a child anxious to be born, though the washboard stomach told a different tale. The sensation was disturbing, yet oddly thrilling, and as it sped along it felt a tremor of excitement trace the length of its spine.

_Blood in the mouth, and blood on your hands._

The thought spiked into its skull with such ferocity that the figure stumbled and threw out its hands to steady itself. The slender chest heaved as it braced itself against the vaulted brickwork.

It stared into the murky water with something akin to terror.

"Blood on hands," it murmured, voice like the whispering of dead leaves. Then it shook its head at the wobbly reflection, closing eyes with pupils like Stanley knife cuts. "Not true. Not true. No blood, none. All clean, see?" Hands outstretched, turned over and scraped at their own palms, as if demonstrating the lack of blood. A few hairs skittered into the water, distorting the reflection more. They obscured it with a wire netting pattern, like they were crossing it out.

_Death in your fingers,_ the unwelcome thoughts insisted. _Follow, follow. Make clean. They'll make you clean._

"Am clean. No blood. Clean already. They kill - "

_Follow, follow. Never clean. Blood always. Hurry! Coming!_

"Coming." The figure pricked its ears and listened.

Sure enough, splashy footsteps approached.

It suppressed the urge to hiss, instead scuttling onto a nearby ledge and continuing on without similar splashes to betray its presence to them. Of course, it was a redundant movement considering the hyper-sensitive abilities of one of their number, but it made it feel better.

Its progress was even faster without glutinous water to wade through. Soon, it had reached the drier tunnels that signalled just how close to the surface it was. However, with practised ease it circumvented the known areas of human habitation. The many homeless sequestered around were completely oblivious to the frantic chase as it blew past in the deepest recesses of shadow. Most slept through the soft pad of footfalls that trod scant inches from their cardboard box homes, and those who heard hissing and spitting in their dreams attributed it to whatever dubious meal they'd scrounged up the night before, and not the pair of gold eyes that watched them with barely concealed hatred.

However, whatever emotions were motivated by being so close to flatscans were never acted upon, since any pause would have meant certain disaster. Instead, the living shadow moved on to even higher ground, until there was virtually just open space and a thin sheet of concrete separating the lower world with the surface; that enigmatic place where more affluent humans lived, walked and drove their cars without the faintest idea of what went on beneath their feet.

Light was more forthcoming now, mostly provided by the few light bulbs various down-and-outs had dragged in, and which were powered by siphoned-off electricity through a choice of no-doubt-dangerous wires and cables.

The number of dispossessed dotted around became steadily fewer. Gradually the light, too, dimmed. It didn't matter, however, since the fleeing figure could see just as well in darkness as in light. Its slit pupils dilated, drinking in whatever illumination they could and using it to their fullest advantage. Each footstep was accurate, each hand set down with unnerving precision. Hesitation was reserved only for choosing direction, and even then it was ephemeral at best.

At this level it didn't matter which path you took. They all ultimately led to the same place, it was simply a matter of how swiftly you got there.

A wire fence rose up, stretched from one side of the passage to the other. The figure didn't even waver, it just powered along and leapt, scaling the mesh in a few seconds and dropping easily to carry on with nary a step out of place. The fence was still reverberating as it twisted the corner and avoided the corpse of a dog that had somehow become trapped down there. The sewers had become the unfortunate creature's tomb, and as the figure bounded over the body it vowed, as it had done since this chase began, that it wouldn't share the same fate.

Minutes passed, as did more tunnels. Overhead sounds became more pronounced, although all the passageways looked much the same to the untrained eye. Then a shaft of brightness hove into view like something from a theophany, and the figure's pace picked up yet more as the proverbial finishing line was sighted.

Ten feet. Nine. Eight. Seven.

Its tongue lolled the closer it drew, thick and heavy in its mouth. Breath rattled in its lungs, and it took the last few steps in a single bound that landed it on the bottom rung of the metal ladder. Sickly light from a streetlamp in the world above filtered through the large sewer grate, and claws scraped on metal as it started to climb.

Freedom, so close...

Then something grabbed its leg, yanking it backwards so that its grip was nearly torn loose. The furry figure howled, but somehow retained its hold. It turned to glare down at whomsoever dared to deny it its freedom.

A single dark eye stared back, severe and determined. It glinted dangerously in the pale beam of the streetlamp, inwardly lit by victory as much as outwardly lit by actual light.

For a second fear and anger warred on the furry figure's face. Then anger won through.

It unleashed an unholy scream, lashing out with the captured leg. The eye-patched female skilfully avoided the blow, bringing her knife-tipped bo up to slice at her prey.

Along the tunnel thundered the two other hunters, slightly slower than their leader but fast enough to cause alarm. Their quarry screeched, leaping sideways off the ladder.

The leader stumbled, not anticipating such a backwards move. She thrust out her bo to take her weight so that she wouldn't fall. A millisecond later she was forced to bring it up again to fend off the shrieking figure as it pounced back onto the ladder.

It had no thought for keeping quiet so as not to risk detection. It was beyond such reason, the simple matter of escape all-consuming. The noise was disconcerting, but not a great problem.

The mohawked female dove forward and tackled it. They both went down and rolled, a mixture of grunts, screams and fur. She tried to pin its wrists, but it clawed at her face and neck, opening a fresh gash that efficiently split her ear. She yelped in pain, then again when her lip followed suit. Blood flowed, getting into her eyes, and for a moment she was blind.

It was all the opportunity her opponent needed. It brought its feet up to push against her belly and fling her over its head. She launched into the wall, sailing like a bird shot on the wing, and impacted with a stomach-churning crack. Then she slid into a heap.

The eye-patched female let out a strangled warcry that was as much frustration as it was anger, and advanced on the furry figure.

However, it was already up and running for the ladder again, insistent on its own escape. It succeeded in gaining no less than the eighth rung before she reached it and grabbed its tail. She pulled hard, and with all her enhanced strength. It barked in agony, then swung all its weight onto its hands and kicked out with both feet. The female was caught in the chest. She slipped a few inches.

In a desperate attempt to rectify the situation she drove the knife-tipped bo upward and at an angle, with the intent of burying it in the figure's back.

However, it saw the action coming and shifted sideways. The blade scored a red line across its waist before entering the fleshy part of its hip and half pulling out again. A spurt of hot, sticky blood hit the woman and ran into her hair. The wound was painful, but not fatal, and the figure kicked out with a frantic strength.

Already teetering, the eye-patched woman fell back. Her weapon pulled free as she toppled, bringing more blood with it. the smell of gore filled the air, cramming into her hyper-sensitive nostrils.

For a moment she dangled in mid-air, until her grip on the figure's tail loosed as well and she descended into a hasty crouch on the stony floor. The sound of a metal grate being forcibly thrown back made her look up, but the figure was already gone. She barely glimpsed the last tuft of fur as it sped away.

She growled, fury writ large on her face, and lunged at the ladder to pursue.

A large hand gripped her elbow. She looked back to see the tall man shaking his head.

"No, let her go."

She was surprised, and pulled away. He lay a cool hand on her shoulder and gestured to where the other female was getting shakily to her feet. "We can't follow her anymore. We shouldn't. Not into Upworld. She's gone, Callisto."

Callisto twisted her features into a mask of wrath, but it quickly evaporated as she looked between the two of them. She sighed as the buzz of the hunt abruptly went out of her like a doused candle. "I know. Any chance of tracking her up there, Caliban?"

Caliban looked at her askance, since she already knew the answer to that question. "My powers aren't limited to either Upworld or the sewers, as you well know. But it would be foolish to try tracking her in open spaces. Upworld is too large, with too many people, and there's the increased possibility of being spotted, even incarcerated, and the location of the Alley being compromised as a result. You know this."

She looked away, gazing almost longingly at the gaping hole in the ceiling. "I'm fully aware of the risks... but I wanted... I wanted..." What? What did she want? Vengeance? Blood?

_No_, a small, sensible part of her brain told her.

She let her chin drop onto her chest; she'd heard that voice before. It was the part that made her the competent leader she was, that had birthed the Morlocks and kept them alive by making tough decisions where the rest of her mind, too choked by emotion, could not.

"I wanted... punishment," she finished lamely, and the inadvertent tightening of her bo grip told them the not-so-hidden meaning behind her words.

"At the possible cost of the tribe?" Caliban kept his tone even, almost a monotone.

"You know me better than that."

They fell into silence, and stayed that way for several minutes. The streetlamp outside flickered, the bulb dying. During those moments of brief death the stars became visible, framed by the towering buildings on either side of the alley this grate led into. It was almost picturesque, like something one of the children might paint or work into their stories.

Almost.

The mohawked female moved closer, rubbing at her head and sweeping blood from her face. "I'm sorry," she said, breaking the stillness.

Both Callisto and Caliban looked at her, puzzled.

"I let her get away," she said by way of explanation.

Then it was Callisto who shook her head. "She played us all for fools tonight. Each and every one of us. I just wonder how long the façade went on before we realised it..." Her voice turned wistful as she questioned her own capabilities at leadership for a moment.

Played for fools? Yes, that was probably the best way of putting it. Especially her, for letting such an indefinite entity into their midst – not so much a snake in the grass as an unexploded bomb you don't know is still live or not. A wild card. A hidden explosive.

She had been from the beginning, with her hungry eyes and strange, untamed air. They both had, but she more than the other. There was something about her – some knife edge that she straddled, cutting her feet on while stepping on either side. Callisto supposed that, in their need to recruit more Morlocks, more tribesfolk, they'd glossed over what she was underneath all that unruliness and unpredictability. They had ignored what she was capable of – the potential destruction in her wild eyes. Their story had been so plaintive, so needful that nobody had thought twice about taking her and her sister in and making each one of them.

Who knew?

She turned, shouldering her bo without cleaning it and stalking away. "Come on. We have to get back. Let the Upworlders have her. It's no more than they deserve. We have more important things to contend with this night."

Caliban and Scaleface cast a last look upward, and without a word Scaleface shinned up the ladder to close the grate with a loud clang. The lock was broken, she noted, but paid it little heed. This was the way most human and mutant homeless got into the sewers. It was the way she'd come down here, and no doubt the way countless more would. Perhaps more Morlock brethren, or perhaps not. Only time would tell.

She slid the length of the ladder and touched down like a moth. Her grace belied the bulky, ungainly form she could take if she so wished, and somehow turned her heavily built frame into something elegant and nimble.

Then, like ghosts, they were swallowed by the gloom.

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To Be Continued...

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A/N – And here we begin the opus that has been in production since March 2003. I began writing this before the Morlocks appeared in official canon, so it has strains of AU now, but after a bit of fiddling with minor details, not so much that it has any great impact on plot. The title comes from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, Act Three, Scene One, after Romeo has killed Tybalt and Benvolio says, "Stand not amazed. The Prince will doom thee death if thou art taken. Hence, be gone. Away!" To which Romeo replies, "I am fortune's fool!" These lines have bearing on my fic. The actual plot of the play does not. No star-crossed lovers here. Nope.

Reviews are much appreciated. It won't take more than a few seconds to click that little button and tell me what you think. Please? I really did work hard and long on this puppy, so it'd be extremely nice to get some feedback on it.


	2. School Daze

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Chapter One – School Daze

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Samuel Guthrie was bored. B-O-R-E-D, bored.

He was not, nor had ever been a particular fan of being cooped up inside a classroom while the weather was even halfway decent outside, but when it was out-and-out sunny it was a cruel, though not so unusual punishment. Especially since he sat next to the window of the classroom, with a perfect view of what he was missing outside. And especially since his seat was right up against the radiator, which, for some unknown reason, was turned on full blast and baking his brains even more than Mrs. Kilroy's monotone voice.

'Killjoy Kilroy' as she was called by everyone bar teachers – and even then Mr. Istanov sometimes slipped and used the nickname – looked up and narrowed her eyes behind her half-moon glasses even as they slid down her not-undersized nose. "Mr. Guthrie, would you mind telling me what you're doing?"

Sighing, Sam let his hand slip from where he'd been trying – and failing – to twist the handle of the radiator to a more bearable setting. "Nuthin', ma'am."

"Really? Because it looked to me as though you were fiddling about with school property." She gave a long sniff and tilted her head back, allowing her English class the full benefit of her large nostrils. "I've been teaching for thirty years, Mr. Guthrie. I know how to spot a prankster in progress from a mile away in the middle of a snowstorm. What were you doing? Planting a stink bomb? Come on, you can't get anything past me. I've had Kurt Wagner is this classroom, and you come a poor second to his shenanigans."

Sam blinked. "Uh, no ma'am. It's just, well – the radiator's just so darn hot, I was just tryin' to turn it down a smidge, is all. I'm sweatin' like a pig over here."

She sniffed again, nostrils flaring as if testing his words. Several members of the first row were forced to look away. "Nonsense. The temperature in here is perfectly adequate. You're just being overly sensitive - " She blinked, a flash of inspiration crossing her withered features. Shoving her glasses further up her nose, she turned to write on the chalkboard. "Oversensitivity. Now there's a common feature of 18th Century poetry, chiefly prominent in the English Romantic era, although in America..."

Sam suppressed a groan and the need to bang his head against his desk. Glaring down at the surface, on top of which rested his notebook, he saw that there were several small indentations that could be accounted for by other students having done the same. In fact, there was a good-sized groove quite near the edge in which he could rest his forehead if he wanted.

Face tipped downwards, a globule of sweat dripped off the end of his nose and hit his work with the tiniest of splats, making a darkish blob of liquid and turning the word 'satire' into an illegible mess. He sighed and dabbed at it with the corner of his jacket, reasoning that it needed washing anyway. The result, however, was an even untidier blob, and he resigned himself to rewriting the entire sentence while Killjoy prattled on in the background.

It wasn't that Sam disliked school; it was just that English Literature did nothing for him. Maths and Science he could cope with, and in spite of his gawkiness he was even passable in gym, thanks to Logan's unforgiving training sessions. Yet when faced with the intricacies of past novelists and writers it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. In short, the subject left him cold, something he'd tried to explain to Professor Xavier when showing him his last school report. That, and Killjoy insisted on always picking the most mind-numbing texts she could find for them to study, and had a proclivity for revolving around Austen so that Sam – having no real clue what life in that far removed country was like nowadays, let alone hundreds of years ago – was even more at sea and couldn't espy a lifejacket anywhere.

He looked up, squinting at the chalkboard and scribbling things down in a hasty scrawl.

Come to think of it, he was due another report soon. And that meant an exam first. Faboo. He couldn't fob off the Institute faculty with stories about 'settling in' a second time, and he was under no false impressions that his upcoming test scores would be less than impressive for English. Then there was the whole rigmarole of explaining poor results to his family back in Kentucky...

_At least they can only yell at me down the phone_, he thought, imagining the expression on the Professor's face even now. It would be a fatherly look, the same as he gave Bobby when the self-proclaimed 'King of Cool' had been hot-dogging it in training sessions again. Yet, where academia was concerned, Xavier always reserved a calculated look of disappointment to slip into his gaze. It would be subtle, almost unnoticeable, but enough to make Sam feel like he'd let the guy down somehow in the most appalling fashion. Damn adults and their stupid psychological warfare! Had they no shame?

Sighing, he tried to keep up with what Killjoy was saying. His head ached, although for once it wasn't because of her voice. The morning's training session had gone wrong in almost every way possible, culminating in Bobby mistakenly freezing him to the wall just in time for a giant glorified ball-bearing to smack him in the back of the head. At least, he hoped it was mistakenly. There was no way to tell with Bobby, since sometimes his penchant for practical jokes crept into places it wasn't wanted.

Aspirin. That was what he needed. Some nice, pain-relieving aspirin. However, a glance at the clock – he'd left his wristwatch on the dresser this morning while running for the carpool – told him that he still had another forty minutes to go before he could even think of mitigating his aching head, and he wasn't entirely sure he had any with him, either. After class he'd have to search out Jean. She always had a handy stash she was willing to give out to those in need. And boy howdy, was he in need -

"Mr. Guthrie." Killjoy's voice cut through him like a knife. Sam looked to the front of the room.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"As appealing as the clock is, I'd appreciate it if you'd maintain your attention this direction until the time I say you can leave. It's no wonder your grades are so poor. You never actually concentrate long enough to learn anything."

A girlish titter sounded up from somewhere behind him. Sam had to force himself not to roll his eyes. However, as soon as the teacher swivelled around again he darted another quick look at the clock, willing it to move faster so he could get out of there.

10:16

_Oh please, oh please, oh please_.

Slowly, little by little, the longer of the two hands inched forward.

10:17

Yes! Progress! He smiled. One minute down, just another thirty-nine to go. He could do that, simple. Easy as pie. All he had to do was stay out of trouble and it would go by that little bit quick-

"Mr. Guthrie."

Damn.

* * *

"I'm tellin' you, man, she's some kind of witch in teacher's clothing!" 

Bobby extracted his Social Studies text from its niche in his bulging locker and quickly rammed another book in its place before the carefully constructed pile of had chance to come crashing down. As it was, an empty soda can plopped onto the floor. He sighed as he scooped it up and crumpled it in one hand. He really had to sort out this junk sometime.

Slamming his locker door – not without difficulty owing to the mass of bits and pieces clamouring to spew forth – he turned to where Sam was leaned up against the adjacent one. "So what did you do this time?"

"Me?" Sam batted his eyes and laid a hand across his chest in a pseudo-hurt gesture. "Why I've been a pure paragon of virtue and good behaviour all day."

"I thought that was meant to be my line when I was in trouble. So spill, did you fall asleep in class again? Did you snore like last time?"

Sam ruefully shook his head, and then winced. "I wish. Nothing so peaceful." He rubbed at the spot between his eyes and frowned into his fingertips. "Ach – do you know what class Jean has next? I need to borrow some aspirin."

Bobby raised an eyebrow and tossed the soda can into a nearby trashcan. Score! "Just borrow them? I don't think she'd want them back after you're done."

Sam's answer was mature. "Ha-freakin'-ha. So do you know where she's at?"

Bobby shouldered his backpack and pressed his hands to his temples, closing his eyes. "Wait a second while I use my awesome mental powers to pinpoint her exact location."

"You don't have any mental powers, awesome or otherwise."

He ignored the snippy remark and made a throaty humming noise of the kind he'd seen hypnotists and two-bit 'psychics' do on TV. "I see something... very faint... she's quite close, and she's in a hurry... headed in an easterly direction...yes, yes I'm pretty sure it's easterly..."

Sam rolled his eyes - instantly regretting it, as they seemed to have swelled to twice their normal size and no longer fitted properly in their sockets. "Come off it, Bobby. Do you know where she is or not?"

Bobby opened his eyes and grinned. "Of course I do."

"Hi guys," Jean said, affably but hurriedly, as she dashed past.

"She's right there."

Sam shot him a withering look before hastening after her. "Jean! Hey, Jean, wait up!"

She must not have heard him, because she never slackened her pace and he was almost forced to run to keep up. Briefly, he wondered what she could be in such a hurry for. Jean hadn't a tardy to her name, but her grades were so consistently good that her teachers were able to forgive a little lateness now and again.

"Jean!" he tried again, turning a few other curious heads as he scurried past. Dangit.

This time she heard him and turned her head, slowing enough for him to draw near. "What's up?" she asked, cordial, though her eyes darted along the corridor, signalling that she'd much rather be somewhere else.

Sam blinked, curious despite himself. "Where's the fire? Or is my company that bad?"

"Sorry. Our History teacher's gone home sick and he asked me to take the class today." She glanced at her watch. "I'm supposed to be there to let students into the room." A faint jangle drew Sam's gaze to where a set of silvery keys were hooked around her index finger.

"Uh, well, I was just wonderin' if'n you had any aspirin you could spare," he said sheepishly.

Jean gave him a sympathetic look as she swung her shoulder bag around and started grubbing about inside. "Still suffering the effects of this morning?" She'd been there when the icy blast went astray, and it was only through her quick thinking and psychic shield that Sam had been hit by only one metal sphere instead of three.

"Bobby will pay," he replied, mock-serious. "Slowly and painfully. I'm just lullin' him into a false sense of security first."

"That's the spirit." Jean exhaled noisily and looked down to where the small, unassuming box of tablets had slipped through the torn lining of the special pocket she'd sewn into the side of her bag and become lost somewhere in the depths of make-up and stationary. Jean had so many headaches as a result of inadvertent psychic projection by her peers that she virtually kept the pharmaceutical industry on its feet by herself. In fact, she went through so many painkillers that she had to hide many boxes in secret pockets like this one in case people thought she was some kind of junkie.

Today the aspirin flatly refused to be found. Jean chanced a quick peek to make sure nobody was watching and then covertly sifted through the contents of her bag with her telekinesis. She grunted as they turned up at last, and pushed them unceremoniously into Sam's hands.

"Hey wait," he called as she hurried away. "Don't you want these back? I only need two tablets."

"No time," she replied, and disappeared around the corner with an offhand, "See you later."

* * *

"Fuck." 

"Mind your language."

Ray glanced up to where Jubilee and Kitty were grinning at him and gave them the one-fingered salute. He was in no mood to deal in petty conversation right now, and as far as he could tell, that was pretty much all those two dealt with. That and the occasional lecture.

His day was not going well as a whole, and it seemed it was about to get worse. The morning's training session had seen him quite literally take the flack of Jean's last second rescue of Sam. His ribs still ached from the crushing blow they'd unintentionally taken from a metal sphere when one of her throws went awry. His geography teacher hadn't had an ounce of sympathy when the residual pain interfered with his ability to concentrate on glacier formation. It had taken all Ray's self-control not to blitz her backside when she walked away from his desk.

"Charming," said Kitty, opening her locker. Inside, all her books and various belongings were stacked neatly, in methodical order, and it was but the work of a moment to rearrange her rucksack for next period. "So what's with the expletive?"

Ray gave her a contemptuous look. "Fuck off." He banged at his unopened locker with a closed fist. There were several dents in the metal where he'd done it before, and the two girls exchanged a knowing glance and not-so-secret giggle.

"Forget your combination again?" Jubilee asked sweetly. She popped her gum in a perfect bubble. The scent of strawberries filled the air. "Aw, shame. You know, if you just stopped blowing your lockers sky-high in a temper then they'd quit moving you, and you wouldn't have so many codes to remember."

For a second Ray looked a little panicked, no doubt because of her casual, and very open mention of his powers. It was no secret at the Institute that, when in a bad humour (which happened most days, at varying degrees of intensity) Ray's mutant abilities were wont to flare up, which usually resulted in his locker, and any contents therein becoming little more than a charred mess as he struggled to get the door open. Electrical based powers and metal doors did not a good combination make. However, it wasn't something they generally mentioned outside of the mansion – and for good reason.

He glanced around the corridor, but it was fast emptying of people, and none of them were even slightly interested in the trio of Institute kids.

Institute kids. Even though only a few of them hung around together on a social basis, they'd all received the same moniker. It irked some of them – Ray included. He was the most vocal, but people never took any notice. He was their teammate and housemate, he said, but not their friend. Not really.

Not that he knew it, but it was the same sort of thing Rogue had said for a very long time after moving to the mansion on the cliff. In certain circles, she still maintained it to this day.

"Tell the whole world, why don't you?" Ray hissed, and hammered the door again. It didn't budge an inch.

Jubilee waved his concerns away with a casual hand. "Geez, lighten up. We know it, and you known it, so why not tell it?"

"How about a little thing called subterfuge?"

"How about a little thing called 'being late for class'?" Kitty inclined her head at the wall of lockers. "Need a hand? The school, like, totally can't afford to pay for a new set of textbooks for you. Besides, they're gonna get suspicious soon of these 'rogue pranksters'. Y'know, the ones who keep targeting you and your stuff alone?"

"Perhaps I should work my magic on a couple of other lockers to even things out a little." A strange light glinted in Ray's eyes. It was almost mischievous. Except that Ray, as he kept telling people who dared to think otherwise, was far too 'hard core' to ever be considered mischievous. "I can think of several just off the top of my head."

Kitty sighed and rolled her eyes. "Cut the act, Ray. Here." Sparing the briefest of glances around to make sure nobody was looking, she stuck her hand through the metal door and fumbled around inside. After a few seconds the lock clicked, and the door swung open. "There. Open sesame."

Ray reached past her and grabbed hurriedly at a few heavy books, thrusting them into his bag.

"No need to say thank you or anything," she sighed, by now rather used to Ray's rudeness. He hated having to ask for help – especially from a girl. It seemed, in her humble opinion, to be an intrinsic part of the Y-chromosome that admitting you need help is a no-no, and that any help offered was owed you anyway. Scott had been like that until quite recently, despite his leader status insinuating he was supposed to know better, and she smiled at the memory of Jean making him eat his words that girls aren't as competent as boys.

"Fine by me," Ray grunted, not looking in her direction and inadvertently proving her theory.

There was the sudden sound of ripping fabric. He cursed again as the bottom of his battered old satchel finally gave up the ghost and tore through. The safety pin he'd attached to keep the two sides clipped together until allowance day had been lost somewhere, and now a gaping hole graced the worn fabric. It was completely useless for carrying books – or anything else for that matter – and when he held it up to inspect the damage a much-chewed ball-point pen fell out and went skittering under the row of lockers.

"Oh, crap on a raft!"

"Bless you, my son," said a low voice.

Ray whipped around to be confronted by the grinning face of someone he really didn't need to see right now. "Fuck off, Roberto."

"Don't worry, he's said it to everyone now," Kitty said over his head.

Ray growled at her, but she barely noticed. Incomprehensible noises were as much a part of Ray's everyday dialogue as 'like' was of hers.

Kitty glanced at her watch and readjusted her bag, slipping her other arm through the strap and waving to them all. "Gotta run, I've got Geometry next and the teacher will so, like, totally fry me if I'm late."

"And we couldn't have that, now, could we?"

Jubilee cuffed Ray upside the head, the action having no real malice, then swept past him and dragged Roberto along by his elbow. Ray growled after her, then got down on his hands and knees to see if the pen was retrievable. He had precious little stationary, owing to an uncanny knack of losing them in random places, and there was still enough ink in it for it to still be considered useful.

Roberto seemed a little reluctant to leave, however, which might have had something to do with the fact that Sandra Amigoni, a few moments ago drinking at the water fountain, was now bending down to tie her shoelace not ten feet away. Sandra was his resident girlfriend of the moment, although it was commonly knowledge that her 'assets' – which were the reason behind her recent immense popularity – weren't quite what they appeared. Not that it bothered Roberto, of course; nor the rest of the male horde she had at her feet as soon as she walked through the doors every morning.

"Come on, Casanova," Jubilee said, tutting at his gooey expression. "We have Chemistry next, and I'd like to get there sometime this century. See you, Ray." She waved at him, which he returned absently.

"Yeah, whatever."

"You'd better hurry, too. One more tardy for you and it's detention for sure."

"Fuck off, Jubes. What I want your advice, I'll ask for it."

Roberto blinked out of his drooling long enough to throw another wicked, "Bless you, my son," over his shoulder, knowing that it annoyed the hell out of Ray, even if he didn't actually know why. It was a quirk he'd picked up not long after they arrived at the Xavier Institute, along with the fact that he didn't like Ray Crisp one iota.

"And you can fuck off and all, Bertie!" Ray sniped, using the nickname he also knew his teammate hated.

His reward came as Jubilee steered Roberto up the stairs. Ray caught a peep of a furrowed brow and a murderous look just before the other boy's face disappeared.

It was a practised ritual, this tossing of insults and jibes. Roberto had only come to collect Jubilee for their next class, and hadn't even known that Ray would be there, but the two of them had effortlessly slipped into their customary slanging match like that had been their intention all along. Kind of like Scott and Lance's grudge, only without quite so much outright loathing.

The strange verbal – and oft times physical, though usually when the sun wasn't out – feud was something the other Institute kids often marvelled at and puzzled over in equal measure, wondering how it was they could be so absolutely foul to each other in everyday life, but still work as a team without carving each other's guts out when they needed to. Scott reasoned it was because they knew the value of teamwork and watching out for each other's backs, and sometimes people tried to concur with him; but most of the time they agreed that Kitty was closer to the mark when she argued that it was more likely Logan's 'calming influence' had something to do with it. Nobody – but nobody – acted up while he was in the room, for fear of having painful parts of their anatomy impaled on his claws.

Sighing, Ray pressed his ear to the ground and peered under the lockers. He snorted slightly as a few dust bunnies crept up his nose, but poked around as far as he could, trying to feel if his pen was yet salvageable. He'd only bought it at the weekend, after all.

It wasn't.

Complaining profusely, he clambered back to his feet and surveyed both his ruined bag and the many textbooks he needed for next period. The many heavy textbooks, most of which he would rather throw out of an upstairs window than have to look at again.

With a resigned sigh, he stuffed the remnants of material into the very back of his locker and retrieved his emergency pen from where he'd stuck it to the roof with gum – his own, not Jubilee's. It was speckled with sticky white flecks and it smelled a bit odd, but picking them off would give him something to do in class rather than listen to the teacher. Hell, trapping his head in a waffle iron was better than listening to that drone.

He pocketed the pen and balanced the books in his arms, shutting the locker door with his elbow and somehow turning the combination the same way. The hallway was almost completely vacant now, and he staggered away towards the stairs, trying hard not to drop anything.

_Just my crappy luck my class is on the next floor_.

However, in spite of ungainly textbooks, navigating stairs he couldn't see properly, and half skidding along a corridor the janitor would pick _today _of all days to wax, Ray almost got to his class in time.

Almost.

**{DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR }**

The bell, which just happened to be right above the door of his classroom, thundered into his ear and through his brain like one of Evan's spikes. Not expecting it to be so deafening and close, he flinched his head back. Unfortunately, the movement didn't go well with an armload of heavy books, and he started to overbalance. For a second he teetered on one foot. Then gravity won the fight and he fell squarely on his rear with a loud yelp.

The books and loose papers flew from his hands, scattering everywhere, and the coveted spare pen vanished over the side of the staircase. Ray heard it drop and bounce, and briefly considered chasing after it until the door to the classroom opened and a floral print bulk appeared.

"Mr. Crisp," the teacher said, rolling her eyes. "Why am I not surprised to find you at the heart of this commotion?"

Wisely, Ray said nothing. A few curious heads peered around the teacher and sniggered. One boy held up a hastily scrawled notelet that read 'U R ded!'

Faboo. As if he didn't know it already, somebody thought his demise needed signposting. Nice to know they thought so highly of his mental capabilities, although their own weren't up to much if their spelling was anything to go by.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"Uh, I was a lot closer this time?"

A light smattering of giggles leaked out of the room. They were quickly silenced by the teacher's hard glare. Whatever chintzy, motherly garb she wore, her face was like rigid steel, and she turned a dispassionate eye on Ray that he knew all too well.

"Your humour won't save you, Mr. Crisp." What was it with teachers in this place? Didn't they know how to use first names? "Close or not, this is the fourth tardy in a row, and you know what that means."

Sighing deeply, Ray got to his feet and held out a hand for the detention slip she no-doubt already had waiting for him. Sparing only a precursory nod, she slapped the paper into his hand and gestured that he should pick up his things so they could start the lesson.

"Uh, Miss Minkis?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have a pen I could borrow?"

* * *

Scott's car was crowded most days, both to and from school. Being the only kid with a car at the Institute had its advantages, more freedom being a primary one, and that chest-swelling edge of responsibility another. However, when he'd got his first motor, nobody thought tell him that owning a set of wheels also entailed becoming the automatic carpool for anybody and everybody who reached it in time to squeeze in before all the seats were taken. They'd also neglected to mention how many times it would get blown up, crushed, smashed and lasered to death either, but that was another story entirely. 

"Kurt, move over!"

"Yowch! Watch it! That's my tail, man."

"Well, keep it out of my way."

"It _is_ out of your way. If I wrap it any tighter around my gut I won't have any gut _left_."

"Like, what gut? You're too skinny, Kurt."

"Jealous, Kätzchen?"

"You wish."

"I do."

"Eew! What_ever_."

"Mature response, as ever, K-Girl."

Scott was a responsible leader. And responsible leaders don't kill their teammates.

Still, these guys were seriously pushing their luck. He found himself unconsciously grinding his teeth as Jean slid into the seat next to him. She shot him a sympathetic look and told the others to knock it off; advice they promptly ignored as soon as Kurt tried to eat a sandwich he'd snagged from the Cafeteria at lunch specifically for the lull the trip home provided between meals. It had been sitting in the pocket of his bag all day, and the mayonnaise was starting to smell a little odd.

Scott swivelled in his seat and did his best to glare, noticing as he did so the crowd of younger students coming towards them. Beyond the new recruits he could see Rogue talking amiably with Risty as the two of them walked arm in arm towards the latter's car, and a small pang he decided not to analyse blossomed in his gut when neither girl even bothered to look up, let alone wave.

Kurt, Kitty and Evan, squidged firmly together in the back seat, did their best to follow his gaze, with mixed results when Evan's skateboard caught Kurt in a very compromising place with a sharp crack.

"Whoops. Sorry, man." To his credit, Evan did look penitent.

Scott gave a vicarious wince at the pained look on Kurt's face. His hologram was turning red as he held his breath, then let it out in a long whoosh that sounded a little like "You will be," although he'd deny it later.

"Sorry guys, all full." Scott patted the steering wheel, anxious to be off but feeling a small pang of guilt at the disappointed expression on the younger recruits' faces. For a moment he was glad Jamie was home tutored by Mr. McCoy, since the little guy's puppy-dog-eyes put even Kurt to shame.

Bobby drew close to the driver's side and puckered his brow. "Aw, man. Not again. Do you guys get let out earlier than us or something, or do you just cut last period to beat us here?"

Kurt grinned, though it was still a little strained, and his voice came out thin. "Tricks of the trade, mein Freund. Besides, we have a lot more practise at this than you do."

"Why aren't you skating home?" Amara demanded of Evan. He shrugged and cut her a dashing smile.

"Hey, why put in the effort if Scott's willing to drive me there?"

"Because you're taking up my seat. I was promised a ride today. Scott said so this morning."

"I don't see your name on it."

She grunted, and seemed about to say more. You could always tell when Amara's last class had been with Ms. Vasquez, because she spent the rest of the evening in a mood as black as coal. However, instead she turned on her heel and stalked away to wait, impatiently tapping her foot on the opposite sidewalk.

Jubilee rolled her eyes theatrically, popping a large pink bubble that splattered onto her chin. She peeled it off and went right on chewing, much to the disgust of all watching.

"Dude, sick!" said Evan, sticking out his tongue.

"Want some?" She fumbled around in the pocket of her favourite yellow jacket, a piece of clothing she was forever wearing, even though she never told anybody why she liked it so much. As far as anybody else could tell it was a threadbare, dowdy old thing that had been darned back to life several times. It only ever left her possession to be washed or re-sewn – most notably during the 'incident' between her and Amara on their first day that had ended in both the jacket, and Jubilee's arm being accidentally cut. As Kitty had said many times, it was an item thoroughly consigned to the eighties, along with Beely-bubs, shell suits and Ra-Ra skirts. Yet, whenever questioned, Jubilee just stroked the hem and said she'd always had it, and wasn't about to give up on it now it was a pensioner.

Evan shook his head at the packet of strawberry bubblegum she offered, and all the other mutants responded in kind. Jubilee shrugged and pocketed it again, tossing a handful of old gum wrappers into the trash.

Scott arched an eyebrow over his glasses. "Don't your jaws ever hurt from chewing that stuff? Every time I see you you're chomping."

"Hey, don't bother me about my gum and I won't hassle you about your shades," she replied, paraphrasing the line he'd fed to almost every new recruit when they first arrived at the Institute. Then she winked and rested her hands on the side of his door. "You _sure _there's no room for us? The way home is _so _far, and we don't take up much room, honest."

"You better hurry, then, or the bus will leave without you."

"Cruel fiend," she grinned, showing she'd known what his answer would be even before she asked the question.

Rahne came up and tugged at her arm. "He's right, though, hen. Lookit, there it is."

Sure enough, the flaking yellow school bus was lumbering around the corner towards a gaggle of leftover kids plus Amara. Amara shot them a glance that clearly said 'hurry up so I can have someone to tell how horrible Ms. Vasquez was to me today', though the rest of her expression told them she wasn't happy to be riding the bus yet _again_.

It was true. Those not of the original variety rarely got to ride in Scott's car. It was a constant sticking point, and several times he'd been accused of playing favourites with the older kids, but he always maintained that they simply got there first, and it was nothing to do with him who rode and who didn't. Secretly, Scott would've killed for just one day when he could drive to school alone; or perhaps with just him and Jean. However, he was too much of a softy to ever say no when pleaded to, no matter how tough he cultivated his 'fearless leader' persona to be.

"Chop chop," said Evan. He clapped his hands and revelled in the plush interior he could recline back in, while they'd have to avoid the unsavouries of public transportation and circumvent the hole in the floor that the school was forever assuring them would be 'fixed in the near future'. You didn't have to be a psychic to know that the future they talked about would never come.

Scott swivelled again. "Cut the sarcasm, or I'll give your seat to one of them," he warned.

"You wouldn't dare."

"My car, my rules."

It wasn't clear whether he was saying that to appease the horde of newbies, or whether he actually meant it. Ruby-quartz glasses had the unfortunate ability of inhibiting most emotions unless they were very over-blown.

Whatever the case, Evan leaned back, grumbling to himself but doing as told.

In dribs and drabs, the newer students peeled away and ambled across to the bus stop as the ancient vehicle creaked up.

Scott twisted his key and the engine of his car roared to life, purring happily. He patted the side, as he was wont to do, murmuring words of encouragement as he shifted into gear and reached for the handbrake. His habit of talking to his car was something the other kids liked to pick on him for, but Scott ignored them throughout. His car was his baby, and he cared for it as much as he would indeed do a child. Considering how often it caught the flack for his own misadventures, he felt he had a right to feel a little overprotective.

However, Jean stopped his hand and gestured to the newbies. "Isn't there someone missing?"

"Uh?" Scott blinked, not having noticed. After all, the newer recruits were so _many_ compared to the old team dynamics that sometimes they were hard to keep up with. "Uh, no?"

Kitty leaned in between them and shook her head. "Jeez, Scott, you're supposed to be the leader. You'd think you'd know when a couple of your teammates are missing."

Scott flushed, embarrassed at having his Achilles Heel called into question – especially when he saw Jean giving him a reproachful look. Clearing his throat, he called out, "Hey, Bobby. Aren't you absent a few?"

Bobby turned around, but kept walking backwards. "Who? Ray's in detention again – big surprise – and Roberto's off with... um..." He frowned. "Hey, Jubes, who's Roberto out with today?"

Jubilee looked up and blew a bubble, which Rahne and Sam stuck a finger into from either side. She left them to deal with the sticky mess and said, "Sandra Amigoni. You know, Miss Double-F? Or it might be that girl from his Biology class. I don't know, I'm not his secretary."

Bobby's cheeks darkened a little, but he snapped his fingers and relayed the information to Scott.

In back, Kurt rolled his eyes. "Trust Roberto. He'd probably make them add a day of the week just so that he could take out eight girls instead of seven without overlap."

Kitty squinted at him, mouth quirking upward as she rested an arm on either front seat. "You're just jealous because all the girls know it and forgive him anyway."

Kurt grunted a noncommittal response.

Kitty licked her finger, making a point symbol in the air. "Fifteen all, Fuzzy – oh, _yeuch_! I thought I told you to put that sandwich _away_! It's, like, totally disgusting, and you'll get salmonella."

"Mmmm, nummy." Kurt crunched happily away and offered forth the offending sandwich. "Like a bite, Kätzchen? Put hairs on your chest."

"I think I'm truly gonna hurl."

"Not on my upholstery, you're not!" Scott shoved at one of her arms and Kitty plopped backwards into her seat.

Kurt swallowed and grinned at her. "Thirty-fifteen."

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Review Responses:_

**Angel of the Fallen Stars - **Glad to hear you like it. Thanks for the review, I appreicate you taking the time to write it.

**FrickinEvilPoptart - **Your closing sentence made me do a spit-take, I'll have you know. And why, pray tell, does your dog smell like butt? Or should I not ask? Anyway, many thanks for the review. I'll keep in mind what you said about mishmash paragraphs. Hopefully this time things were a bit clearer, but if not, please let me know.

**Me (Harry Wriggle) - **You liked Moonshadow? Well, colour me surprised. The prologue was meant to be a bit confusing. I was hoping to slip details of what the hell was going on in as we get further into the fic. As for the fanart, I actually have an image in my head from later on in the fic that I would quite like to see. But, y'know, when you're ready. I don't want to encroach on your RL, babs. Oh, and I started this thing in March 2003, so it's been in pre-production for... seventeen months. Fuck, that long? Even I've started to lose track of the time now.


	3. Gridlocked

* * *

Chapter Two - Gridlocked

* * *

She hurt. She hurt right down to the core of her bones. And she was cold. And tired; so tired she felt like she could drop right there.

But at the same time, she knew she couldn't – mustn't. Not safe.

She'd been running all night and all day, fleeing from shifting shadows and figments of her own addled mind, as well as truer monsters that laughed and jibed. Her ribs ached. There was a scabbed wound on her head where a pack of thugs had mistaken her for a stray cat and thrown rocks. The vestiges of a smile ghosted over her features, as they once again ran screaming through her memories. She'd taught them their mistake – and also been the subject of a laughed-at phone-call to the police, though she didn't know it.

The light hurt her eyes, so she instinctively shunned it, shrinking into gloom wherever she found enough to shield her.

So many people. She'd forgotten how many people lived in the sun. They teemed and chugged and swelled in their buildings of steel and glass. She cowered at the sheer number of them when the sun first peeked over the horizon and they awoke from their beds, spurting forth into the empty streets like fizz from an opened bottle.

She was a night creature, and whenever she'd ventured out in the past it had been empty and dark – a husk of a place. She'd long since stopped thinking about those people tucked into beds as living, breathing things. She'd spirited past their windows, the moon and streetlamps as her guide, thinking that was their way, and this was what their world was like.

The sun had proved her wrong, calling forth its children into the light as it had once done her.

So long ago.

A child of the sun? Her?

Her fear had been removed quickly, swallowed by a fracture as she adapted to hiding in this strange place. Sometimes landmarks were familiar, but her mind was splintered and memories of them slipped away like silk, hard to catch and even harder to pin down. Bad feeling clung to those half-remembered dreams, and she snarled at them before moving on again. No place to stop. No place to stay. Not safe.

Not safe.

Shelter. That was what she needed. Someplace to hide. Sanctuary. But this world was so big – fathomless. And so open. Always there were people – people who would find her. They walked and spoke and peered around like newborn chicks, forever watching. She skinned her teeth at them, but they never saw, and she never let them see.

Run. Keep running. Not safe. Not safe.

Then she found it. Small, narrow, but oh so dark and quiet. No whiff of others here, and the comforting odour of garbage and rot filled her nostrils when she scented the air. Familiar, yet not.

Enough.

She crouched among the waste of this upper order, nestling in their filth. Finally she could stop running. Not truly safe, but enough for the moment. Her muscles ached, cramped, and her jaws hung slack as she panted. The murk enveloped her like a blanket, and she huddled into its embrace, keeping an eye on that pool of brightness so close.

Though she fought it, her eyelids drifted. So tired. Exhausted. First the chase, then the fear, then the hiding, and always, always the running. Endless. Incessant. Time to stop now. Time to rest.

Just a little time to rest?

No! Stay awake! Eyes open, watching. They'd come otherwise, with their knives and their patches. She couldn't let them take her unawares. Flee! Flee!

But so tired. So very tired.

Head hurts. Aches. Throbbing pain. People with their harsh words and piercing screams. Chalkboard shriek. Easy prey, but savage. Hatred. She remembered that. Hated her kind. Not understand. Freak. Genetrash. Heavy hands and soft touches. Horrible. Horrible. She remembered breath hot on her cheek, pressure, then screeching. Run away! Run away! Escape! Feathers, the flutter of wings. Coppery tang and a wet ripping. Chase, chase, always running, always routed. So tired. So, so tired.

Just a little time to rest?

Perhaps. Sleep harried away the monsters; sent them spinning into the ravines were they couldn't climb out. Buried. Blurred. Blotted out.

Blackness.

* * *

When Ray finally stepped out of school, the sky was already turning a light purple, frayed at the edges with shades of scarlet and yellow. He shielded his eyes, glancing around at the dearth of cars, and sighed. Only Miss Minkis' battered old Honda was left in the parking lot. He watched the beady-eyed teacher who'd seen fit to incarcerate him for the past few hours waddle over and climb in. It was a bit of a surprise when she gunned the engine and drove off like a wannabe rally-racer. He'd never had her down as a bad driver, considering what a stickler she was for the rules, but she took the corner like Mr. McGoo.

Somewhere in the echoing corridors of the deserted school he could hear Leroy, the janitor, as he finished locking up. Strains of 'Waltzing Matilda' filtered through the door. Ray let it bang shut behind him. He hated that song. Too many memories of drunkards trying to sing it as they staggered past him at night, or else tried to turf him out of the doorway he'd taken.

Instinctively he shook his head, dispelling the flickers of memory, and started down the stone staircase towards the street.

School was an odd place when all the kids had left; full of echoes and the smell of freshly swept floors. Almost tomb-like, if he was trying to be particularly morbid. The rest of the detentionees were gone, but Ray had decided to fetch the remnants of his torn bag first, hoping to salvage the thing. Lack of cash meant he had nothing with which to buy a new one, and he surveyed the scrap of fabric dolefully, wondering whether he could convince Ororo to mend it for him when he got home.

Home?

For a second he blinked, startled at the use of the word, and halted mid-step. He'd never referred to the Institute as his home before. Not that he could remember, at any rate. In fact, he could quite clearly recall a conversation with Scott about not calling it that.

Scott wasn't quick to anger unless provoked. Ray had hit a nerve when he once dubbed the mansion 'freak show ground zero'. It was a curious knack of his, being able to spot a person's proverbial weak spot quicker than most. Not a physical thing, but a psychological one – their vulnerability. Logan could do it too. Like with Sam's preoccupation with his height, or Jean's near-obsession with having everybody like her. Things you didn't mention in polite conversation, or unless you were purposefully trying to get a person's back up.

Of course, it made sense that the X-Men leader would take umbrage at anybody not showing the mansion the correct level of respect. The Institute was pretty much all Scott had in the world, bar his little brother. Ray knew, as did all the new recruits, the story of how Scott and Alex had been separated so many years ago. It was no secret that Scott's attachment to his team and the new home Xavier had given him had been – and still was – the centre point in his life ever since. Even Alex's miraculous return hadn't taken the shine off. Scott's team was his family, as Jean had tried to explain following the argument, and Scott was nothing if not defensive of his own.

Still, Ray had come out of the dispute with a scowl and a bad word, his perception of the place not altered a jot. After all, why should he call it his home when it had been blatantly thrust upon him out of the blue?

Of course, he'd had to remind himself that the other kids didn't know about that part – and never would, if he had his way. The part about how Xavier's school had only been the lesser of two evils – well, three if you counted his parents' house, which he rarely did. Ray didn't exactly have what you'd call a 'close' relationship with the people who'd spawned him. Mr. and Mrs. Crisp hadn't even waved him goodbye the day he left – an incident that still twinged, no matter how much he told himself it didn't matter, and that he didn't need them anyway.

His acceptance of the invitation to join the Institute and the X-Men had been... what? How best to describe it? An escape clause? A lifeboat? Thinking about it, he supposed it had been. He wasn't a particularly philosophical person by nature, but even he could see the analogy.

Unlike the other new recruits, Ray's offer to join hadn't been given in a sitting room, beside his family, over the phone, or through a mutual friend. The circumstances of his first meeting with Xavier hadn't exactly been normal, either. Pressed up against a sewer wall, hardly able to see through his own blood as Logan bounded in and saw off the bunch of thugs literally beating him to pieces for poking his nose where it didn't belong. Not the best way to make a first impression. In fact, if he hadn't blacked out right about then, Ray wasn't sure if he'd have stuck around to see who the bladed mutant was, let alone listen to what he had to say.

_But I did_, he thought. _And here I am_.

He took a moment to massage his temples, which was easily done considering he'd abandoned his schoolbooks in lieu of any pressing homework and the fact he'd have to walk home with them in his arms.

Home. There was that word again. Twice in as many minutes, and with no real reason behind either.

Ray snorted. Probably, nobody else would be bothered by slipping up that way, but it disconcerted him more than a little. His trust wasn't easily given. In the beginning, he'd almost considered himself bullied into joining Xavier's school; railroaded. That hadn't been the case, as he realised later. Xavier had given the option to turn him down, and made sure he'd known it was there. Ray'd had the choice to turn around and go back into the tunnels, to walk away, but instead he'd chosen Upworld. His decision, nobody else's. And some days he still wondered what had made him do it.

Had he been so desperately unhappy down there?

No, not that he could remember.

He'd always been the black sheep of his family, true; never fitting in wherever he went. To some extent it had been the same down there, but his freaky genes had given him an edge that he hadn't had in the sun – an intrinsic ability to integrate, to fit in. The makeup of his blood had made him a part of them even when his attitude set him apart – a mutant amongst mutants, one of their kind.

So had it been his attitude that drove him back out into the light, then?

No, it couldn't be that either, since that was exactly the reason he wasn't a good fit at the Institute. He wasn't the right shape for their jigsaw, wouldn't slot in nicely like Scott, Jean or Kitty. Heck, even Kurt fitted better than he did – quite a feat considering the elf was blue, furry and demonic, and Ray had all the attributes of a normal human kid.

So what was it? What had made him grasp the Professor's hand that day and let Logan guide him out of the tunnels propped on his shoulder? What was stopping him from fitting in when he'd consciously made the decision to come here?

Perhaps he wasn't really meant for either place. Perhaps he really was the bad-tempered loner that Evan was always calling him. Perhaps he'd convinced himself he couldn't do it so that he wouldn't be disappointed when things eventually went wrong.

Or perhaps he was too screwed up to tell _what_ he wanted.

With an irritated grunt, Ray stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He cast about for a second to make sure nobody was about, and then scooted backwards, around the edge of the school building towards the football field.

Self analysis wasn't his forté, nor did he enjoy it when it decided to pop up and plague him, and whenever he got too bogged down in seriousness he found it was best to indulge in a bit of downtime to clear his head.

The bleachers were stark and imposing – about as welcoming as the empty school. It didn't matter though. They were private, and far enough away from the street that nobody could see him. Not that what he was doing was against the law or anything, but he'd spent so long perfecting techniques of not getting caught at the Institute that hiding his habit had become a habit in its own right.

Knuckling down on the lowest bench, he drew the packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and patted around for his lighter. It wasn't where he usually kept it, however, and for a brief second he wondered whether he'd mistakenly left it in his locker. Then he remembered zipping it into the side of his backpack that morning when Logan did a spot check. Idly, he retrieved it, and sat with his hand cupped around his face as he tried to get it to light. As if on cue, a stiff breeze had sprung up the second he sat down. It curled around his fingers, tugging the flame away each time it appeared.

Time passed. The lighter remained unlit, but Ray's famous anger was doing a good job in its stead. He shook it, but aside from making the fuel bubble inside the gaudy pink plastic – that was the last time he bought a lighter from a truck stop – the action did nothing more than stir his annoyance that little bit more. He growled. He scowled.

"Need a light?"

The voice made him look up, startled and half-expecting to see Miss Minkis striding across the field. After that little display in her car and the dubious novel she'd been reading in detention, he wasn't sure what to put past the crusty old prude anymore.

Yet the teacher was nowhere to be seen. On impulse, Ray had let his cigarette drop into his hand where he could easily stash it up his sleeve if questioned, but it appeared the move hadn't been needed after all.

"Yo, brainiac! Up here!" The voice came again, tinged with laughter.

Ray turned to see a familiar blonde figure bouncing her way down the bleachers towards him from where she'd been standing in the uppermost corner. She waved, tripped, and almost lost her footing, but somehow managed to turn it into a hop-skip that rattled the wood beneath him.

"Hey," said Tabby as she drew closer.

Ray grunted, but made no move to leave when she plopped down beside him. She was breathless, but her trademark grin stayed in place.

"How long were you standing up there?" he demanded.

"Is that any way to greet your old teammate? I'm hurt." She pulled a pseudo-injured face and rocked back to lean her elbows on the bench behind them. "Long enough. I'm surprised you didn't notice me when you sat down. I was waiting for Lance and the goon-squad to come pick me up after work. He started his new job last week, and thus far he's managed to keep it, too."

Ray didn't say anything, but pressed his cigarette back between his lips. Tabby took this as a response, and carried on as if he'd spoken. During her brief time with the X-Men, Ray had learned that Tabby's capacity to hold an entire conversation on her own was astonishing, and that when talking to her you sometimes didn't have to say anything to hold your own.

"I know, will wonders never cease? He's even kept his temper in check while he's been there, so no freak earthquakes recently either. That should keep those scientists up at the university happy, huh? Anyway, he said he'd pick me up on his way back to the Boarding House, since it's en route and all, and you just _know_ that the other three will be tagging along with him. Honestly, they're worse than dogs when it comes to car rides, and considering Pietro can run faster than any car anyway, I sometimes wonder why he even bothers. I mean, he's forever going on about challenges and all, but Lance's jeep is about as challenging as a pink poodle. So do you need a light or what?"

The abrupt change in topic left Ray lagging for a second. When he caught up she was staring expectantly at him. There was nothing in her hands, nor any lighter or matches anywhere that he could see. He figured it was probably a joke. She was famous for them, after all.

"Got one," he said around his cigarette, inclining his head.

"It working?" Tabby grinned, and then cupped her left hand under his nose. A tiny pinprick of light manifested in the centre of her palm, growing to about the size of a golf ball in a matter of seconds. It crackled angrily, spitting tiny pink sparkles at him like an irate kitten.

"The hell?" Ray reeled back, thinking for a moment that she was trying to blow up his face with it.

Tabby had always been a wild card, but since her defection to the Brotherhood her exploits had been growing steadily, both in intensity and number, until he didn't know what not to put past her. It was the main reason many of the X-men didn't associate with her anymore, not even on a social basis. However, Ray and several others – Jean and Kurt included, it has to be said; a friendship several kids wondered how his new girlfriend Amanda Sefton was taking – still kept up sporadic contact, which was the main reason why he hadn't been unduly bothered by her approach on the bleachers.

Now, however, he skittered backwards to the sound of her laughing. "Geez, what's the matter? You've seen me use my powers before, and there's nobody around."

"Yeah, but not right in my schnoz before. You wanna warn a guy when you do that?"

She pulled a face. "Oh, lighten up, you're beginning to sound like Scooter-boy. So anyway, I can't keep this baby hot forever. You wanna use it for a light, or what?"

Finally grasping what she meant, Ray grumbled and edged forward, need for nicotine temporarily dousing conversation. He bent his head, keeping his eyes on her face and, true to her word, the tiny little bomb lit his cigarette with ease before fizzling out with a noise like a dead TV set.

Ray arched an eyebrow as she dusted off her hands. "Since when can you make those things leave without blowing up?"

"I've been practising," she said slyly, wiggling her fingers at him. Then, with a slight of hand she procured a cigarette from his packet and popped it between her lips. He glanced down, and then back up at her, blinking.

"Hey!"

"What?" She produced another short-lived bomb, lit up, and then inhaled, letting out a breath of grey smoke that plumed around her head as she leaned back again. "Gotta be some perks to helping folk." She wagged the white stick at him like a parent telling off a child. "There's a always a catch to things, Raymond. The trick is knowing what they are before they happen. Didn't I teach you anything before I left?"

_Always a catch_, Ray thought, remembering something she'd once said to him when they first moved to the Institute. The memory elicited another, and he smiled – a rare sight.

"You know, we've gotta stop meeting like this."

For a moment Tabby looked confused. "What are you - " Then realisation dawned visibly as she remembered that first night at the Institute when she'd crept out of her bedroom for a quick cigarette, only to meet him outside, already smoking. That day was a little hazy now, but she remembered that much. "Except, if I remember right, I was the one with the crummy lighter last time. Looks like I finally paid my debt, huh?"

Ray said nothing. There was no need to.

Time passed, as they indulged themselves in their brief sin. Soon a smoky cloud enveloped the area. It was odd how much smoke cigarettes could produce, considering their tiny size.

Any of the other X-Men would be horrified to see him now, Ray knew. Even those who still consorted with Tabby had no love of smokers. He'd seen them walking past those less discreet than himself, holding their noses and commented in stage whispers about the smell. That was why few of them knew he did it. He didn't need any extra flack about smoking along with his attitude and disrespect for the rules, and he _certainly_ didn't want to give Roberto any more bullets to use.

He cut a sidelong glance at Tabby, which she saw and questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"So why the long face? You looked like a month of wet Sundays when you sat down. Something on your mind?"

"Just... stuff," he replied, waving a careless hand that clearly said 'I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it'. He deflected further questions by asking one of his own. "So how come you're here so late anyway? I didn't see you in detention, and I'm pretty sure you didn't stick around to help old Leroy clean up."

"I had a date."

"Go well?"

"I guess you could say that." She gave a rapacious grin, which broadened as he leaned over and plucked a tuft of partially mashed grass from her shoulder. A few green stains were just about visible on the back of her top.

"So I see."

She took a long drag, puffing out a series of small rings that hovered for a second before dispersing. "So how's life treating you? Wait, that sounded corny, didn't it?"

"Very, and okay, I guess. Logan's been coming down pretty hard in the training sessions recently, but the originals have been copping a lot of it, too. He says we ain't working hard enough."

"You know, that's one of the things I really don't miss about that place. Bumblefuck in the morning is no time to have a training session, and when I get in from school all I wanna do is relax, not run some gauntlet in a giant metal room with a man named after a small mammal."

Ray shrugged. "He's not so bad, once you get to know him a bit more. And actually, Wolverines are quite large critters." There was a lull, and after a second he looked at her. "What?"

Tabby shook her head, corners of her mouth twitching. "I never thought I'd see the day you defended 'ole Wolvie. As I recall, he seemed to like tearing strips off you in particular whenever you screwed up."

"Says the girl who called him Badger and then nearly drowned her teammate."

"Touché." She took a long drag and let the smoke billow out from her nostrils. She looked like a dragon from a fairytale, and he told her as such. "Watch it, or I might start breathing fire at you," she warned.

"No, that's Miss Minkis."

Tabby chuckled, and he gave a watery smile. Tabby had always been pretty easy to talk to. Not that he liked her as anything more than a friend, but some days he missed having her about the Institute. Her easy banter and cynicism was a welcome change from the other's blind faith and open moralising. Their backgrounds were vastly different, but he got the feeling they understood each other better than most; that they were on the same level.

A bird flew overhead, cawing loudly. Ray craned his neck back and watched it meet the rest of its flock, the bunch pf them wheeling away over the school building. Gradually, their noise faded away into the distance, but still he stared at the point where they'd disappeared from sight. He blinked, impressions of sunlight causing green splotches to weave across his vision. The cigarette hung slack. A pinch of ash broke off and fluttered into his lap.

"Aw shit!" He jumped up and brushed it off before it could burn a hole in his pants. Tabby snorted behind her hand, and he looked sharply up at her. "And what's so funny?"

"You, of course. Don't ask stupid questions if you don't want stupid answers." She rolled her eyes, then took out her cigarette and flicked the end away so that it wouldn't burn her jeans. "How long have you been smoking now, and you still haven't got the hang of it? Shameful." She tutted, shaking her head.

Ray sat back down again and surveyed the smouldering cancer-stick. "You know," he said without looking back, "I think I might actually give these things up. I think I remember someone once telling me they're bad for my health."

This time she didn't even try to hide it behind her hand. "Oh, be serious! You couldn't give up smoking in a million years, any more than I could."

"Wanna bet?"

"Like I've got money to burn."

It was a trivial comment, so small and meaningless, but the mention of Boarding House economics crashed down on their conversation like a guillotine, severing anything Ray had been about to say.

Suddenly he felt very uncomfortable. Despite what he'd been saying he replaced his cigarette between his teeth and inhaled, filling his lungs with smoke and breathing it out again.

Tabby must've felt the same way, because her laughter died away. She didn't try to restart it.

When had Tabby left the Institute to join the Brotherhood, it had really brought home the financial implications of the X-Men's nemeses. Well, they weren't really nemeses, but they were the closest they had, and it was difficult to view them as just that when you knew how hard they had to work in everyday life just to feed themselves. Especially since life in the mansion was so plush by comparison. The realisation of life on 'the other side of the tracks' was a ready-made guilt trip that none of them liked to confront.

Nobody had really considered before what life at the Boarding House post-Mystique was actually like. Even after Kitty brought home stories of the squalor there, and after Tabby moved in, it was a topic culpably avoided by most. Lance and his followers were too proud to accept help, but too much at odds to ever concede that their problems were just too much for them to handle alone. Scott maintained that they were all just a bunch of jerks, and most of the time they lived up to their rep, but they were jerks that had a hard time and a rough lot in life.

_Kind of like me,_ Ray thought, a mere hint of acrimony edging his mind. _Except I got a shot at a second chance at the Institute, and they don't. Just like the other Morlocks don't... aw hell! _He nearly swore out loud. _I came out here to forget about all that, not think about it more!_

However, it was too late. Even with his cigarette pressed between his lips Ray couldn't evade the thoughts and images that ensued the brief lapse. He rumbled savagely to himself as they crowded into his head. He tried to shove them out again.

Maybe it was the encroaching sunset, maybe it was the peaceful atmosphere, or maybe it was just that his brain was sick of avoiding the subject. Whatever the reason, things he'd buried and stopped thinking about months ago suddenly elected to rise to the surface and hit him where it hurt – his oft-denied conscience.

He felt guilty about the predicament facing the Brotherhood, as did all the X-Men on some level – even Scott, who professed to loathe the whole lot of them. After all, there but for a trick of fate could be themselves, and it was a sticking point whenever they looked out of the window and saw the distant bulk of the Boarding House looming on the horizon.

Yet only Ray was lumbered with two sets of shame about companions left in the lurch. The Brotherhood were peers, school buddies, even a romantic interest in Kitty's case. Yet the Morlocks had been more than that. They'd been his tribe – his surrogate family. They'd taken him in when he ran away from home and had nowhere to go, not questioning his story and doing all they could to make him feel one of them. He'd considered himself a freak of nature – genetrash. Xavier hadn't been the first to tell him that he wasn't. That base was covered long ago. Even Callisto had attempted to include him in their way of life, and she was notorious for her temper and suspicious nature. He was supposed to have been loyal to them, a part of them, but instead he'd left at the first opportunity of something better.

He'd got his second chance, but simply by the nature of what they were, what made them Morlocks, none of them ever would.

He'd betrayed them. Betrayed what they stood for.

_You betrayed them_.

"Fuck."

"Excuse me?" Tabby lifted her gaze from where she'd been staring at a patch of grass. She cocked her head to one side. "Uh-oh, your smile is fading."

"It wasn't faded already?"

Exhaling noisily, she leaned forward and rested a hand on Ray's shoulder. It was a friendly hand, not the seductive touch she was wont to use, nor as threatening as she could be. She'd only meant it to be a comforting gesture, a prelude to asking him if he wanted to talk about it. Not her forte, she'd happily admit, but still...

Yet Ray shrugged her off and turned his face away, eyes troubled. Tabby blinked, surprised at how his expression had changed in a few short seconds.

"You okay, buddy?"

He said nothing, but took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped the stub onto the turf. He took a moment to grind it with the heel of his boot as he stood up, and then walked away without another word. That in itself wasn't unusual. Ray often just upped and left. It was a quirk of who he was, though people who didn't know him properly often mistook it for outright insolence.

However, the look on his face this time denoted a deeper motive this time. Tabby knew the signs of running away and was confused to see them in Ray. She wondered if she'd got it wrong and given him the come on when she didn't mean to. It wouldn't be the first time she'd given someone the wrong signs.

Tabby jumped up to trail after him, eager to set the record straight, or make him feel better if it wasn't her who had done wrong. Ray wasn't her teammate anymore, but something was bothering him, and she reasoned that she'd abandoned the X-Men in name only.

He tried to skirt around her, but she planted herself in his path and folded her arms. "Alright, spill it. What's the matter?"

"Leave me alone, Tabby," he said, moving aside again.

She sidestepped along with him and peered pointedly up into his face. He was a good few inches taller than her. Anyone else might have been intimidated when he glared down at them. Ray had spent a good deal of time perfecting his glare, and usually it worked to great effect when coupled with that bizarre haircut. However, Tabby ignored it and tapped her foot.

"Not until you spill. Come on, don't you trust me?"

For a second he wavered. She saw it in his eyes, and waited for him to tell her what was bugging him. Then the curtain fell across his face again. He pushed past her towards the street without so much as a backward glance.

For a second Tabby just stared after him. Then, taking the forethought to rid herself of the incriminating – though still only half-burned cigarette – she gave chase.

Ray looked heavenwards, but kept on going. Tabby's footsteps on the pavement behind him were like machinegun fire, only levelling off when she dropped into step alongside him. She jammed her hands into her pockets, cast a look, and then started whistling amiably.

"Fuck off, Tabby."

"Make me, tough guy. It's a free country. I can walk here if I like. Besides, you shouldn't be rude to me. I just gave up a perfectly good cigarette for you."

"I mean it. Quit following me."

"Who said anything about following you? Jeez, you men, you're all the same. So arrogant. Maybe I was going this way anyhow, ever think of that?."

"No, you were waiting for Lance to come and pick you up."

"Damnit, you saw through my clever ruse."

Ray sighed and wound the ruined backpack around his arm. Silence lapsed between them for several minutes, until they reached a crossing and Tabby broke it again.

"So, what _is_ bothering you?"

"_Nothing_," Ray snapped, hustling forward as a Land Rover waved them across. He spared the driver a curt nod of acknowledgement and thanks, but ignored Tabby until she skipped ahead of him again. "Look, I never asked for you to come and speak to me, so just fuck off and leave me alone already. I don't want to talk about it."

"Ooh, touchy," she sarcasmed, yet her face was concerned.

Ray shoved past her with only the tiniest spark of regret. It wasn't often people concerned themselves over trash like him. Figures the one time it happened it was over a topic he really didn't want to discuss – no, _couldn't_ discuss.

He felt bad, though. Life at the Institute must have been turning him soft, because he tried to apologise and failed miserably. His internal retinue of cussing increased.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? It's just that... I... well..." he struggled, wondering how to put his unwanted thoughts into words without actually telling her about the Morlocks. To reveal their existence was an unthinkable crime, even to someone like him. He knew the laws, foremost of which were secrecy of the tribe and the location of the Alley, and though some days he just wanted someone to talk to about everything, to air his guilt to, he knew that he couldn't. As far as Tabby and the X-Men were concerned, he'd come to join the team fresh from his parents' house. There was no need for the incident in the tunnels to ever go beyond himself, Logan and the Professor.

Tabby tilted her head to one side, unused to seeing Ray tongue-tied. Usually, if words failed him he filled in the blanks with invectives or meaningless grunts. There was a strange look on his face now, almost like he was choking. She wondered what on earth could be making him act this way when he'd seemed so at ease back on the bleachers.

"Is it about your folks?" She wasn't ignorant to the loveless relationship of the Crisp family, mainly because it was the same kind of feeling between herself and her father – only without the criminal records.

Ray blinked slowly. Then he nodded.

"See, was that so difficult?"

"Fuck off, Tabby." But this time there was no real emphasis behind the words. It was just something to say, to fill in the quiet, and she brushed it aside with a toss of her head.

"You, my friend, have a classic case of emotional constipation."

"Say what? Eew, that sounds gross."

She grinned, glad to have gotten a response, even if it was trifling. "It does, doesn't it? Not the kind of thing you'd expect to find in a Disney movie."

They started walking again, gradually sliding back into a conversation that traversed from Walt Disney across to Hollywood, dipped its toes into homework and school, and then settled down into what was on TV that evening – trivial things they could talk about without fear of making the other clam up or feel uncomfortable.

They crossed several streets. Around them the sky darkened from lilac to purple, and then to indigo. Finally, Ray looked around and remarked that they were getting further and further away from school and her appointed meeting spot with Lance and the guys.

"You sure they won't assume you're making your own way home?"

"Even if they do, this is the way back to the Boarding House. At least until the end of this street." Tabby gestured to the junction they were approaching; right towards the Xavier Institute, left towards the Brotherhood's place. "I guess we'll be parting company whatever happens. I'll just hang around here until those bozos drive past and then flag them down."

Ray looked around with a critical eye. This street wasn't exactly the most dangerous of places, but it had a disreputable air that made him want to turn into another one as quickly as he could. They passed a small alleyway, dark with shadows caused by its inherent smallness, and he shivered despite himself.

He wasn't what you'd call a weedy guy. In fact his time in the sewers and training sessions with Logan had made him quite muscular compared to some of his peers. Even so, the nearness to the 'bad' side of town – Jubilee, New York and L.A. veteran, still marvelled that Bayville was big enough to even _have_ a 'bad' district – made him feel uneasy.

"You ain't waiting around this dump alone," he told Tabby matter-of-factly, and stopped in the middle of the pavement. "Not on the street corner, either. That's exactly the way to give folks the wrong idea." He cringed, realising he sounded like his mother.

Tabby arched an eyebrow. "Why Raymond, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't, but Professor Xavier'll chew me out if I left you alone in a place like this. That's after Logan's cut me into little pieces and spread me across the driveway."

"Yeah, I'll bet he would."

Ray'f forehead furrowed slightly. "The Professor still feels responsible for you, y'know. Even though you left us."

Tabby nodded, frowned, and then leaned up against the wall to take off her shoe and empty out a pebble that had been annoying her for three streets. "Yeah, I know. He tried to talk me out of going a few times, but it wasn't any use. I'm no good for the Institute, and the Institute's no good for me. Never was, and I doubt it ever will be. Didn't stop him from trying, though. Said he owed it to me to make sure I was provided for. Pfft! He didn't figure on Lance and that dumbass pride of his." She sounded bitter.

Ray blinked, for a moment a little slow on the uptake. "What's Kitty got to do with it?"

"Not Pryde, genius, _pride_. Lance has some thing going that he won't accept handouts, and he won't let any of the rest of us accept them either. Says the Brotherhood's not a charity case, and that we can stand on our own two feet. Or ten feet. Whatever."

Uncomfortable, and in the light of talk about feet, Ray scuffed his own. "Y'know, if things get really bad, you could always rejoin the X-Men - "

"Weren't you listening to me?" She slipped her sneaker back on and reached up to rap on his head with her knuckles. However, the position was an uncomfortable one, so she settled for his shoulder. "Hello? Anybody home? I just said the Institute wasn't a good fit. Lack of money's not going to change that. Besides," she shrugged, "I couldn't walk out on the Brotherhood now. They took me in – well, kinda – so I owe them a little loyalty."

"They could all - "

"Tried it. Failed it. Buried it. Xavier's called the Boarding House before now – whenever the city hadn't cut off our phone – and offered a place at the mansion to the whole bunch of us." She let out a breath through her teeth. "Unfortunately, guess who answered."

"Lance?"

"That's right – he can be taught! Lancey-poo pretty much told him to shove his offer where the sun don't shine."

"I'm taking it that happened after the whole joyriding incident?" Ray had heard along with everybody else of Sam, Jubilee and Bobby's exploits, as well as how it had led up to Lance leaving the New Mutants. He'd been sad to see him go. Lance was an okay guy, once you got past the bad attitude and too-many rock puns, and he always pulled his weight in the training sims.

"Right again," Tabby sighed. "I wouldn't mind so much, but it's a lot easier to make proclamations like that when your belly isn't aching and there's water coming out your faucets." She looked up, about to say more, but stopped. "Hey, Ray, you okay there?"

Ray's features had taken on an odd quality. He looked fairly distant, and she glanced over her shoulder before realising he was staring off into space and not actually at anything. A flash of remorse flared briefly in his gaze, but was over before she turned her head back and waved in front of his eyes.

"Earth to Ray, come in Ray."

"Wha - " He blinked, as if waking up from sleep.

"You okay? You spaced out for a minute there."

"Uh – fine. I'm fine," he said, but he could see she didn't believe him for a second. He couldn't tell her what he'd been thinking about, though.

Why did she have to go and use the word loyalty? For fuck's sake, he'd nearly put it out of mind, and now it was back again, grinning at him like a gargoyle squatting in the middle of his thoughts.

_You betrayed them. You **abandoned** them_.

"You sure?"

"I _said_ I'm fine. Quit henpecking me, will ya?"

Tabby raised her hands, palms outward in the universal gesture of surrender. "Yeesh, keep your lid on. You're more hormonal than me when I'm PMS-ing."

A loud honking crushed any further conversation. The two of them turned to see a familiar green jeep careening down the empty street. It slowed as it drew nearer, trundling to a halt and then stopping with a squeal of badly-oiled gears. Lance kept the engine running. The duo of Fred and Todd grinned down from the back seat. Of Pietro there was no sign.

"Hey, Tabby, I thought you said to meet by the school. We've been looking all over for you." Lance was resplendent in his work uniform, the white apron that read 'Welcome to Joe's Eatery' in crudely printed red letters staring balefully out at the world. He'd removed the matching cardboard hat, but Todd was now wearing it like a victory helmet in his stead. Lance obviously didn't know about that, or he never would've allowed it. Todd's personal odour had a habit of getting into anything he touched and not leaving again for at least a week.

"I find that difficult to believe," Tabby replied, one hand on her hip, the other trailing aimlessly. "You were late anyway. Try for overtime?"

"Nah, but we stopped to get some dinner on the way."

"We got pizza!" Todd held up a box. From the way he jostled it around it was clear there was nothing in it, which would've been annoying were it not for the large stack of similar boxes in Fred's lap. Ray counted six, and then saw there was another open in the large boy's hands.

"It was the weirdest thing," Fred said in his rumbling, vaguely ponderous bass. "All I did was walk in to order and they shoved this load of food at me free of charge." He gave a wicked smirk, and bit into the half-eaten slice in his hand. "I really can't understand it."

"How very generous," said Tabby. "So where's Pie-Pie? Off on another hot date?"

"Yup." Lance shrugged. "Just don't ask me who it is this time. He's got too many for me to keep track."

"The boy should just settle down, yo," Todd remarked, and grappled with Fred to open the pizza box.

"Right, Pietro the Player settle down. That'll be the day." Tabby shook her head, scornful.

"Whatever. Look, the pizza's getting cold, and if we don't get home soon neither you nor I are gonna get a look in before these two guzzle everything." Lance leaned over the back of his seat and swatted at Fred, who shifted aside with surprising grace.

"Missed me."

"You're gettin' slow, Lance. Old age catchin' up, yo?"

"Whatever."

"Valley girl talk! Valley girl talk!"

"Todd, shut up. Tabby, you coming, or are you gonna stay here all night with your date?" He gestured, and then blinked, as if seeing Ray for the first time. "Hey, don't I know you?" Lance snapped his fingers as he placed the face. "I _do_ remember you. Berzerker, right? Hey, wait a second, _you're_ Tabby's new beau?" He sounded quite astonished.

Ray wasn't sure if wanted to assent or hit him.

Tabby stepped in between them before he could say a word. "No, Ray's not my date. _That _guy left ages ago. And believe me, there won't be any repeat performances there. Weaker than a newborn kitten. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am." She turned to Todd and Fred, who were looking on with interest. "Sorry boys, details don't get any gorier than that. Fred, Todd, this is Ray Crisp. I used to live with him at the Institute. He offered to stay with me while I was waiting for you bozos."

"Why? He expectin' a reward at the end or sumthin'?" Todd dragged his head back, trying to jerk a particularly stringy piece of cheese free. It snapped back and hit him in the face, sticking to his forehead. Shrugging, he peeled it off and ate it anyway.

"It's called chivalry, Tadpole. You might wanna look it up sometime. It might get you a few more dates."

"Nah, that soap you're thinking of," Lance said waspishly.

Tabby slapped her forehead. "Oops, so I am. My mistake."

"Not funny, yo." Todd folded his arms and stuck out his lower lip, making for a curiously comical picture, since there was a dribble of tomato sauce running between his eyes. "Damn stuff's poison, I swear. You shouldn't be jokin' about that crap. 'Specially to me. Urgh – brings me out in hives just thinkin' 'bout it."

"Hang on a minute," Fred broke in. "Let me get this straight. You're actually hanging out with a member of the geek-squad _voluntarily_?" He swayed his head from side to side. "That just ain't right."

"The X-men aren't all jerkoffs," Tabby replied, and Ray wondered whether that was a compliment or a not-so-cleverly-disguised insult at his team. "Lance and his little Kitty-cat prove that; and if I recall, one of them used to be your teammate. Besides, I used to be a geek-squadder. Or have you forgotten that?"

"Yeah, but... you're different."

"How so?"

"You're, uh... you."

Todd rolled his eyes. "Witty comeback, yo. Ain't lost your touch yet, big guy."

Lance patted the steering wheel, recapturing all their attentions. "Look, whoever Tabby hangs out with is no concern of ours, so long as that busybody Xavier stays away from our doorstep." He shot Ray a pointed look, as if daring him to contradict.

Ray met the gaze confidently, even a little coolly.

That seemed to placate Lance, because he nodded and indicated that Tabby should hop up into her accustomed place in the passenger seat. "Anyhow, right now we gotta get home. I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving."

"Yeah, and the pizza's gettin' all cold and eaten," Todd said, snagging another piece and biting a chunk out with gusto. "Mmmm, mushroom and bacon. Hafta try that place again, Freddy boy. They got excellent recipes."

Tabby started forwards, but stopped when she only had one foot on the step. She swivelled around, looking between Lance and the end of the street, and then hopped back down to grab Ray's elbow. "Want a ride back to the Institute?"

Ray blinked, not having anticipated the offer. "Uh..."

"Come on, it's better than walking. Besides, it's getting dark. One chivalrous turn deserves another and all that jazz. Pietro's not here, so you can have his space."

"Hey!" snapped Lance, vexed at the offer being made without his prior consent. "This is my jeep, y'know. What if I don't want him riding in it?"

"Oh, go boil your head, Lance. I thought you were saying a minute ago it's okay to hang around with a member of the dork patrol?"

"I said _you_ could hang around with them. I never said anything about sharing my jeep. More to the point, we aren't even going in that direction." He looked slightly petulant.

Tabby turned on her heel to stab a finger up at him. "Okay then, lover boy. I'll remember that the next time you want to bring Kitty home. After all, it's technically my home, too, and perhaps I don't want to share with her. Or maybe I'll remind you of this the next time you forget which team you're on. As I recall, you used to give rides to practically all the Institute kids while you were staying up at the mansion. Or is it one rule for you, and another for everyone else?"

"Woo, she got you there, Lance," Todd crowed. He was silenced by an icy look.

"Can it, frog-boy. It's my jeep. And hey! Give me that hat back!" Lance snatched the cap and jammed it into the front compartment by his knees, while Todd yelped and said something about having his hair ripped out.

Ray came up to Tabby's side and tapped her on the shoulder. "It's fine, I can walk back. It's not that far from here."

Tabby said nothing, just kept staring up at Lance. In turn, Lance rolled his eyes and sighed. He knew that his dates with Kitty depended on the other Brotherhood members clearing out for the evening, or at least being quiet. He usually tried to make sure he took her out somewhere, but sometimes they just wanted a little peace and quiet. Tabby could make things very difficult of she wanted to.

"You sure he isn't your new beau?"

Tabby cut a glance at Ray, and he read the sardonic smile in her eyes even though it never went to her lips. "Puh-lease. Ray's my friend and he did me a favour, so I wanted to return it. Is that so difficult to understand? You're the one who's making this difficult and more than it has to be."

Todd leaned over, dangling a drippy pizza slice. The smell was strong and enticing. They all heard Lance's stomach growl. "Come on, Lance. Make a decision already. The food's all gettin' cold anyhow, if you wanna be picky about it."

"Oh all _right_," said Lance, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder that Ray should climb into the backseat next to Fred. "But I want it known now that I'm doing this under duress. Any closer than this to Geeker HQ is too close in my book."

"Even if you're goin' to pick up Miss Meow?"

"Shut up, Todd, or I'll use you as a hood ornament."

Tabby slid in next to him and, smiling, chucked under his chin with a carefully manicured nail. "Guess your love-life's safe for another day."

Lance's face was dark. "Gee, I'm so appreciative."

"You should be. Oh, and Lance honey?"

"What now?"

"You really need a shave."

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Review Responses:_

**Me (Harry Wriggle) – **Me finish something? Be serious, Harry. _Fortune's Fool_ is up to 147 pages on my computer, but not finished. I just thought seventeen months of gestation was enough. I shall be emailing you forthwith about that art you offered. If, y'know, it's still on offer. And as for the money analogy, I agree. And I liken it to my version of the Prince's words from Blackadder the Third: Reviews are like sex – tons of it about, and I never seem to get any.

**SperryDee - **All shall be revealed in due course. But be warned, not everything is as it seems on the surface.

**Ivan Alias – **You know Yodel? He's right, insofar as there is some Authio Commentary as yet unreleased concerning _Judgment Day_, but it comes in the form of a sort-of-third epilogue. I just left it out of the version here on because new regulations said anything that isn't strictly fiction will get a whole fic scrubbed, and possibly an account suspension. Feh. Boscastle – my father used to work there when he was a student. He was very surprised to see it on the news. Poor bastards.

**Angel of the Fallen Stars – **Here's that Ray-centric part you were after. And _Judgment Day_ is pretty much finished for the moment, unless someone is up for writing a sequel. It's an open-ended kind of fic, like the film, _The Omega Man._ Kindasorta.


	4. The Bayville Inquisition

* * *

Chapter Three – The Bayville Inquisition

* * *

She came awake with a start and snarled on reflex. Danger! Flee!

No, wait. Nothing here. No movement, no peoples. Emptiness. Silence.

A fly buzzed past, settling on the tip of one ear. Flick and gone. Hum away into the light.

The light?

No, fading. Softer colours, quieter sounds. No more cars and razzing engines. No more footsteps that could find her here. Gentle lilac, creeping. Stars yet? No, but soon. Beautiful. Upworld nights so beautiful. Speckle, sparkle, scattered gems in the sky, all twinkly and staring. Like eyes. A plate of burning eyes.

She yawned, stretching her jaws wide. Still tired. Not enough sleep. So what had woken her? Her body craved rest, but her mind was alert, her hearing strained – all the indications that danger was near.

Something there? Instinctively she shrank back, blending with the refuse and shadow.

Minutes passed. There, right there! Soft burbling – one low, the other higher. Voices. Talking. At her? No, moved on from here. Passed. But still close. Too close. Dangerous.

She narrowed her eyes, staring at the light in the mouth of the alley. Nobody there, nobody to see her. But not gone. Not yet.

Briefly, she considered chasing them away. The night was her territory. There she was queen. Darkness made puny humans prey, soft and yielding. But no, it wasn't night. Not yet. Still evening, the time when they ruled this place. Her disadvantage. Best to lie low and wait for them to pass.

She waited. The voices continued. Burble, burble, like water in a brook, or through a pipe. But they didn't move on.

_Go!_ she thought. _Leave. _Her tail lashed, her eyes flicked around this darkened space she'd claimed as her own. _Mine._

She shifted her weight, limbs tingling and claws scratching the concrete. Slowly, inexorably she crawled forward, as if by stalking the voices she could instil in them to depart. Her movements were slow, languid, partly because of her injuries, but partly due to her inherent sense of the hunt. Muscles stretched and contorted, gliding. Her breath evened out, became long, deep breaths. Her body hugged the ground with practised ease. She stayed in the deepest recesses of shadow.

Then, suddenly, she stopped. Imperceptibly, she tilted her head. A strange scent drifted to her through the filth and decay, curling into her nostrils and twisting its way into the furrows of her mind. Familiar but foreign, it danced on the edges of her memory. She froze, trying to recover it. This recollection wasn't tinged with fear and darkness like the others, but a sense of warmth. She _knew_ that scent...

But it was different somehow. She remembered a harsher scent where this was soft, malleable... Upworldly. The smell of easy living and good food in a full belly.

A low growl started deep in her throat. Why had it changed? What had made it this way? Could a scent so changed be trusted?

She sniffed again, closing her eyes and searching for the answer as the voices rumbled on, ignorant.

So long ago. Fractures moved aside as she pushed past, going back in time through memory. Claws snaked from her mind, voices hissed. She skinned her teeth at them.

Where could she know it? Where could it be? Hiding. But where...

_Hothead?_

No. Couldn't be. Lost. Dead. But the scent... it was there. So close. Ghosts didn't smell. She'd seen ghosts, had them flap about inside her head, calling and yowling. This was no ghost. This smelled warm and real, mingled with the aromas of tarmac and fumes from the street beyond. It was almost tangible.

She crept forward to the lip of the wall, then became as a statue when a car thundered the ground under her feet. It screeched to a halt.

More scents. None she knew. Dangerous. Bad. Mustn't move. Catch you if you tell them where you are. Her belly pressed flush to the ground. She shut her eyes so their glassy surface wouldn't reflect the headlights.

She wasn't afraid. Her fear had melted; but she was angry. She'd been so close, and this clinking, clanking, clunking monster had ruined it. Her nose worked quickly, picking out what she wanted amongst the chaff. Yes, still there. still warm and soft and... wrong.

Bellows followed, laughing, and the sound of grunts and squeaking metal. She wanted to make them leave. Her muscles bunched on impulse. Swipe and bleed, run screaming. That would do. Chase them away. Bad peoples. All bad.

The roar of an engine, gears crunching to her sensitive hearing. Faded, a plume of smoke, and then they were leaving. She lost the scent for a second, slipped her head around the corner to catch it again, only to see the vehicle moving away. It paused at the junction, as if waiting for something, then swung to the right and vanished.

She bounded out, heedless of the openness, and scuttled along the wall. Her nose pressed into the dirt, then lifted to the air. There! There it was again. Tantalising, fresh and oh-so-familiar. The more she concentrated on it, the more powerful it seemed. Yes, it was. No ghost – real.

_Follow_, she was told by a fracture. Yet she hesitated. _Safe? Supposed to be dead. No death. No more. Done with that._

_He'll keep you safe. He's an outcast, too. _

_Outcast?_

_Meal ticket. Way back._

_How?_

_Explain later. Think later. Follow now. Hurry._

_Hurry fast?_

_Hurry!_

__

* * *

__

The Institute loomed large behind the gate. An imposing building in the day, it took on an eerie quality at night. Early evening highlighted both versions, fading sunlight illuminating the peaks, dusky shadows shrouding the troughs and crannies.

As the battered old jeep halted in front of the wrought iron entrance, all those inside it had the identical feeling that they weren't meant to be there. It was like a hospital during visiting time, all silence and glaring windows.

"Looks like this is my stop," said Ray, and made as if to get down.

"What's 'at, yo?" Todd indicated to the small metallic plate embedded in the left pillar of the gate.

Ray blinked at it. He knew Todd had been here before, more than once, but no visit had been made through the front gate. At least, not while it was still fixed to its hinges.

"Security panel," he said.

"You gotta input a code just to get in? Harsh."

"No, it works via a CCTV system. If the computer recognises you as having access, it'll open the gates. We used to have a palm scanner, but it was real difficult to upload new prints all the time, so Professor Xavier used a prototype intelligent system that goes by photos. Pretty simple – not that he'll let any of us try it out."

"Whoa! You mean like an AI?" Todd sounded suitably impressed, and Ray found his chest inexplicably swelling as he saw the look mirrored on most of the other Brotherhood faces – even Tabby's.

Security had been through a massive upgrade recently, ever since the Arcade infiltration disaster meant Scott and Jean destroyed a lot of the weaponry on the way in. When he looked at it, Mr. McCoy had found that it worked as a continuity network, meaning that until all damaged parts were either replaced or repaired, the entire system thought it was under attack whenever it was turned on, and went into defensive mode accordingly. They'd lost another fountain and several marble cherubim before they realised that little detail. The cost of repairing everything had eventually proved so much that the Professor decided that testing this new system was the lesser of two evils, and had it implemented as soon as possible. Thus far, it seemed to be working, too – though Logan had insisted on an auxiliary mode in case Mystique, or some other shapeshifter decided to pay them a visit. That part was still in development, though.

"Not quite that advanced, but something like that," said Ray. "No Steven Spielberg type deal, though."

"I should think not," Tabby replied, sticking out her tongue. "What a pile of steaming crap _that_ was."

"So is it gonna let us in or what?" Fred asked.

She turned around. "It can't see his face from there. Hey, Raymond, lean out and show them your baby-blues."

"It's okay," Ray started, intending to walk up the driveway himself. The last thing he needed was earache from one of the other X-men about allowing the enemy into their camp.

However, Todd started bouncing up and down on his seat, not unlike a hyperactive child. "Yeah, go on. I wanna see how this baby works. A real AI – wow, I never thought I'd see it..."

"Todd's a real sci-fi nut," Tabby explained at Ray's blank look. "If it involves giant spacecraft and beings from another planet, you can bet he'll be glued to the TV set. Last month there was a Star Trek marathon on cable and he made us all sit through six hours of it. In Spanish. We, ah – have a little problem with our connection that makes that a side effect."

"In that it's not legal," Todd chipped in, then yelped as Fred cuffed him upside the head. "Hey!"

Tabby smirked. "I guess you can add nerd to his list of nicknames, too."

"Bite me."

"You wish."

"It's just a five minute walk," Ray insisted.

"That makes it a thirty second drive," said Lance, surprising everybody. He hadn't said a word since they started, and it was well known that he usually tried to stay as far away from the mansion as possible. That is, unless he was meeting Kitty. Even then, she came out to see him on this side of the gate so that he wouldn't have to park outside the entrance and risk a run-in with Scott – or else she met him somewhere else entirely for a little privacy.

He caught their shocked looks and shrugged. "Look, if it means I get home any faster then I'll do it."

Ray moved forward. Fred shifted aside for him to lean out and peer into the video camera's line of sight – the one hidden deep in the shining steel. The lens gleamed slightly as he hovered, twisting, and there was a flash as it scanned him. He stumbled, almost tumbling from the jeep, but Fred grabbed his shirt with the same surprising speed as before.

Ray didn't know for a second whether he was being thrown out or hauled back in. He was a little surprised not to find his nose in the dirt. After all, the opportunity had been there, and the Brotherhood was notorious for pulling stunts like that.

"Uh, thanks."

"No problem."

It took a few seconds, but an electronic beep followed, and there was a flash of green that read 'access approved – welcome Ray Crisp'. With a click and a squeak, the gates swung open.

Lance waited until Ray was sat down again before crunching into gear and driving up to the main entrance.

"Cool, yo. Just like out of a sci-fi flick. I call dibs on bein' Tom Cruise!"

Lance mumbled something. Tabby looked at him askance. He just shrugged at her, and she shook her head like a long-suffering teacher.

Nobody was around, and some small part of Ray was glad of that. He hopped over the side of the jeep and dropped to the gravel, waving to Fred and Todd as he did so. Fred returned the gesture, but Todd was busy with a fresh slice of pizza. He just nodded, eyes huge as he looked up at the mansion.

­ "Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it." Ray's mother had spent so long drumming manners into him as a child, he figured he might as well use them. The irony wasn't lost that he was probably showing more courtesy to his enemies than he did to his teammates, and a wry quirk tugged at his lips.

It quickly wiped away again when Lance waved a careless hand, not even bothering to look in his direction as he spoke. "Yeah. Whatever. Just don't expect it to happen again. And tell Kitty I said hi."

Ray might've answered, but as soon as he opened his mouth it was filled with foul tasting fumes. The jeep powered back down the driveway, and as he mounted the steps he could just see a hand waving from the front passenger seat.

He paused for a second, contemplating the overall strangeness of the past fifteen minutes. It wasn't that the Brotherhood had intimidated him, threatened his person, or done anything as violent as they were so famed for. In fact, the oddity stemmed from how crushingly _normal _they'd been. Almost pleasant, if that was possible.

As one of the newer X-Men, he'd never engaged them in battle before, and so had to rely on glimpses at school and stories of past fights from the originals. Around BHS they moved as a pack, typically thuggish and engaging in all the usual behaviour of bullies – flushing heads down toilets, demanding lunch money, stealing from lockers, yadda yadda yadda. After an incident involving Kurt, wet noodles, Pietro's locker, and the bone-jarring after-effects thereof, Ray had learned to avoid them where he could.

Thus it was that their being so downright affable outside school was disconcerting, to say the very least. Had they tried to pummel his kidneys, or throw him from the moving vehicle he would've been angry, but not surprised.

He watched as the gates opened automatically to allow them past. One car in, one car out. The sequence was always the same with this new system, which he was glad of, since it meant he didn't have to ask one of the adults to go into the control room and open the gates manually. If he hurried upstairs to his room now, he could say he'd walked home, thus avoiding the inevitable lecture about not bringing known enemies to their doorstep. Quick and simple. He could see about dinner later.

At least, that was his plan. It fell apart as soon as he opened the glass door and realised Scott was standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded in a unmistakable 'I'm-not-happy' stance. His eyebrows had all but disappeared behind his shades in a deep frown, and the can of coke he'd been carrying hung unopened and forgotten in one hand.

_Uh-oh._

"What," said Scott, with deliberate slowness, "were they doing here?"

Ray shrugged. _Keep it light. Don't have time for a bust-up. _"They gave me a ride home."

"The Brotherhood don't just hand out rides home. They always have a motive behind what they do. Always. Did they ask you any questions? Did you tell them anything?"

Ray's famous anger started to boil. He respected Scott, despite how the he sometimes took being in charge a little too seriously and let it bleed into his home life. Heck, when Scott put on his Cyclops uniform and became team leader, Ray supposed he was just as much in awe of the guy as anyone else. Scott was anal and a killjoy, but he set the standard in being an X-Man.

However, right now was not the time for Scott to try blending fearless leader with older brother persona he'd tried so hard to cultivate with the rest of his team. Ray was tired and hungry after a long, stressful day at school and detention. He didn't much care for being grilled like a criminal before he'd even got three steps through the front door.

Remembering something the Professor had said about keeping his temper in check so as not to let his powers flare up, Ray tried to ignore Scott, but the older boy made it difficult. Ray reasoned that Scott was just doing what he thought was right by the team, that he was just doing his duty. If he was in the same position, he probably would've done the same thing. After all, Scott probably knew more about the Brotherhood than he did.

But that didn't stop him from getting angrier by the second.

"Hey, Ray, don't walk away from me. You know the rules. Why didn't you make them drop you off outside the front gate?"

"They offered to drive me up here. What was I supposed to do?"

Scott's frown deepened. "Did you tell them anything about the new security system? Was that why they gave you a ride? Did they ask you about - "

"Look, they just gave me a fucking ride home!" Ray snapped, his tendency for blue language slipping out. "Why is that so difficult to understand? They weren't spying on us, they weren't trying to learn our secrets, they were _just_ helping me out so I wouldn't have to walk it."

"The Brotherhood don't - "

"I don't care what the Brotherhood does and doesn't do. You never comment when Kitty goes out with Lance, and she's probably told him all our secrets by now. And I don't see you bitching when Kurt talks to Tabby, or Amara goes mall-crawling with her and Jean. But when _I_ accept a favour, suddenly I'm betraying the entire team? Oh thank you very fucking much. It's nice to know you have such faith in me." He folded his arms, eyes flashing. "I'm not an idiot, Scott. I know when to clam up. The plain fact is that they didn't want anything more than to do me a favour, and no amount of digging is gonna turn up an ulterior motive. If you really must know, Lance didn't even _want _to drive me back here. He did it under duress. There, does that make you feel better?"

Okay, so the comments about Kitty, Kurt, Amara and Jean were a low blow, but he really didn't need this kind of confrontation right now. If Scott insisted on pushing his buttons, though, Ray wasn't going to hold back with his reaction. He'd had enough practise in life to hold his own in fights – both verbal and physical. The events and mental stresses of the day were catching up with him at last, and it was either lash out at some_one _or some_thing_. Unfortunately for Scott, he'd presented himself as an available target at exactly the wrong moment, and given Ray just the firepower he needed so as not to blow up another vase on his way back to his room.

Scott's expression faltered. For a second he looked almost guilty. Then he unfolded his arms and squared his shoulders. "I'm only trying to protect us. You should be doing the same."

Ray sighed and let his hands drop. He knew it wasn't fair of him to pick on Scott just because his own problems were making him tense. That didn't make it any easier to hold his tongue in check, though. "I know. Just... just leave me alone, all right? Quit playing the Spanish Inquisition. It doesn't suit you." He turned to leave.

"Don't do it again."

"Three words, Scott. Fuck and off." Ray didn't turn around, but decided that scuttling off to his room like a sneak thief wasn't needed anymore. He'd been discovered and chewed out already, so he trundled towards the kitchen in the hopes Ororo had kept some dinner aside.

* * *

"You know," Lance said after several minutes of stoic silence, "I actually feel a little sorry for that guy."

Todd and Fred glanced up, and Tabby shot him a sideways look. "Dare I ask why?"

"If you don't know, then I'm not gonna tell you."

She rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to smack the back of his head, for fear it would sent them careening off the road. "If you're talking about the welcome wagon, then I saw it too, so stop trying to be clever. It doesn't suit you."

"What welcome wagon?" Todd, having been ordered to leave the rest of the pizzas alone, hopped forward and leaned between the two front seats. Lance started, not expecting his sudden appearance.

"God dammit, Todd." He swatted with the back of his hand. "You're gonna make me have an accident one of these days. Siddown."

However, Todd was nothing if not persistent. "_What_ welcome wagon?"

"Sit _down_! If we have an accident and die, I'll kill you!"

Grumbling, Todd flopped backwards.

Tabby half-swivelled to speak to both him and Fred. "Scooter-boy was waiting for Ray inside, and boy howdy, did he look pissed."

"Probably just lying in wait to tear strips off him," Lance said dryly, slowing the jeep and signalling to turn off the main raod. The street they turned into was narrow, and lit by a single watery streetlamp. "After all, he's not meant to be consorting with the enemy. None of them are. Brotherhood bad, X-Men good." He adopted a bleating voice, not unlike a sheep, and then rolled his eyes when none of the other three got the reference. "Forget it. It's not important."

"Why do I get the impression you're talking more about your little Pretty Kitty than Ray?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"The glaring sarcasm for one. You could poke someone's eyes out with that stuff." Tabby fiddled with the fraying edge of her seatbelt and stared out into the night.

The evening had darkened into a deep, velvety blue, but a mass of greyish clouds swelled overhead. They'd been threatening at the far edges of the skyline all day, but now moved in like some nebulous predator, replacing the serenity with a turbulence that could mean only one thing.

"Looks like rain," said Fred. He eyed the remaining pizza boxes with a sigh. "Are we there yet? I don't like cold pizza, and I definitely don't like cold soggy pizza."

"Looks like more than rain, yo." Todd peered upwards and rocking a little to one side. "Looks like that storm they promised on the weather channel this mornin'."

At that, Lance snorted loudly. "Who'd a' thunk it? A weather man actually got the weather right."

"Stranger things've happened, yo."

Fred sighed and sat on his hands, as if by doing so he could make them stay away from the tantalising pizzas. They'd been placed on the floor of the jeep, on top of Lance's jacket to keep them out of the dirt and thick, greenish grime – although, once again, he didn't know about this misuse of his clothing. Fred sniffed, looking about for something else to focus on, and finally came to rest on the back of Tabby's head – which wasn't difficult, considering she was sitting right in front of him.

"So, Tabby, what do you see in the guy?"

Tabby's hand materialised above her head. When they passed under a streetlight it illuminated a one-fingered salute.

"What?"

"I told you before, Ray wasn't my date. He's just a friend. My date was that guy with the squint from Mr. Istanov's chemistry class."

"That guy? Eew," said Todd.

"Sure, right. You couldn't 'just be friends' with a guy if your life depended on it," Lance sniped.

"I dunno," said Fred. "I mean, we're friends, and she ain't been out with any of us. Except to the school dance, and that don't really count since it was only because Todd and I couldn't get no real dates..." He trailed off. "That sounded a lot better inside my head."

"Should've asked Pietro to share, yo," said Todd. "More than enough to go around in his corner." A large bulb of rain abruptly hit him in the eye, and he squealed. "Ahh! Get it off! Get it off!"

"What? What?" Lance demanded. The jeep swerved a little at the sudden noise. "_What_?!"

"Nothing," said Fred. "But the rain's starting."

"Crap." The jeep speeded up. Without a roof, they'd been rained on plenty of times in the past, and always with the same result – that of a sodden, grouchy Brotherhood and a jeep that smelled like wet Todd for a fortnight afterwards. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.

"I'm blind! It's acid, I tell ya! Acid!" Todd shrieked, only partly joking. He wiped at his face.

"It's the most water that's touched your skin in the last six months," Tabby smirked, until a raindrop slapped her in the forehead and ran into her left eye. It smudged the kohl and made her look like a one-eyed panda bear in the poor light. "Aw, hell!"

"I told ya! It's acid!"

"You've got acid on the brain," she snapped, rummaging around in the side pocket for a tissue.

Todd paused, hands dropping away from his afflicted eye. "What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Figure it out."

"But you... yeah, well, at least I don't have a Geek-squadder on the brain." He nodded, triumphant at his comeback, until Lance shot a dangerous look. "Not that that's a bad thing, of course. Love thine enemy and all that crap – uh, stuff. All mutants should be friends and lovers, uh... yeah..."

"Back-peddle a little more, Todd," Fred grinned. "I can almost smell the rubber burning."

"Piss off."

"Make me."

"Both of you shut up." Tabby dabbed at her eye, but the jeep chose that moment to turn onto the dirt track that led up to the Boarding House. The track was covered in rough, shoddy stones. One of the front wheels hit a rock and jolted, making her poke herself in the eyeball. "Ow! Shit, that hurt!"

"In the absence of your dork buddy, I could kiss it better," Todd offered waspishly, taking the opportunity to change the subject. His tongue snaked between the front seats and waggled suggestively.

"In your dreams, frog-breath. And would you quit saying that about Ray. He's _just_ a _friend_. What is it with people today that a boy and girl can't just be friends without suddenly being a couple?"

Fred rumbled, "As the wise man once said; men and women have tried to be friends, but the sex thing just keeps getting in the way."

"Wise man my ass! That's Ally McBeal and you know it!"

The jeep stopped under the overhang of the porch, and Lance jerked up the hand-brake with something approaching outright savagery. "I can deal with cussing," he said, in a low voice that would've been very threatening had he not been trying so hard not to smile, "and I can deal with you pissing each other off. Hell, I can even deal with outbreaks of violence, so long as I'm not caught in the firing line. But I will not – repeat, _not_ – have Ally McBeal in my jeep. Out, all of you."

"Yes!" Fred punched the air, scooped up the pizza boxes and thundered out, stopping only long enough to unlock the door with the spare key they kept hidden under the welcome mat. "Food at last!"

Not so long ago, Kitty had taken it upon herself to provide them with locks and catches for all the doors out of her own allowance money. Lance hadn't had the heart to tell her that they usually didn't bother locking the place up because there was nothing worth stealing inside. Well, unless you counted the abundance of clothes in Pietro's room, but he had his own lock on his door, so that hardly counted. Still, it'd been a nice enough thought, and though they didn't voice it, they all appreciated the gesture.

Todd was seconds after Fred, hopping as fast as his legs could take him. "Hey, Blubber-boy, leave some for me, yo."

"If there's no pizza left by the time I get inside, you two will become greasy spots on the floor," Lance called after them. He cut the engine and hopped out, searching for the plastic sheeting he used to keep the jeep dry in bad weather.

Tabby clambered down from the passenger side and sauntered into the house, smiling wickedly as the his cussing when he discovered his jacket.

­­­­­

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

_Review Responses:_

**SperryDee - **Done and done, Sperry. Here's some more Ray style goodness for you.

**Angel of the Fallen Stars – **_Judgment Day _pretty much depends on interest from other writers, plus inclination to actually finish it. And right now, there just doesn't seem to be that inclination from anyone. Le sigh. Until then, I'm hoping just to concentrate on other stories. My one-shot counter has gone up since JD finished, which I'm pleased with, and I'm managing to wangle my way into other fandoms, too.

**Ivan Alias – **Quick question: are you Yodelbean? Because you sound (insofar as text can _sound_) a lot like him. _Bourne Supremacy_! I want to see that, but I've given up going to the cinema. I can't support that habit and my comics as well. Crub nuckets.


	5. Personality Haemorrhage

* * *

Chapter Four – Personality Haemorrhage

* * *

Jean looked up when Scott entered the Rec. Room, and raised an eyebrow at the strange expression on his face. Though her shielding was up she could still feel tendrils of anger and surprise rolling off him in waves.

He flopped down into a chair next to where she was curled up on the couch.

"Should I even ask what's wrong?"

"Hmm?" He blinked at her through his glasses, not fully concentrating; then shook his head with a sigh. "I think I just had one of the most surreal arguments of my life."

Jean's eyebrow went up again. "That's a pretty grand statement to make." She closed her book on her finger, marking the page she'd been reading, and shifted so as to better see him. "What was so surreal about it? Did Mr. McCoy throw philosophy at you again?"

"No, although that's a surreal experience in itself. The last time I tried to argue with Mr. McCoy over a bag of potato chips I ended up questioning my entire existence in the middle of the kitchen."

"And let me guess, he ran of with the chips while you were pondering?"

"Yep. But those kinds of tactics I'd expect from him." He paused, and then leaned forward, eyebrows knitted.

Jean was surprised at the strange look on his face, but politely refrained from even the briefest mental search. She could've. Quite easily, in fact. Scott was no psychic, and after intense training with Professor Xavier she was now skilled enough to sift through a person's mind without them even being aware of her presence.

However, Xavier had also impressed upon her the right of privacy of the individual, and had she succumbed to her curiosity it would've essentially shredded every scrap of ethics she had.

So instead she chose the more traditional route, and set aside her book to listen.

Scott toyed with an unopened can of coke. A few beads of condensation dripped onto the carpet and over his fingers, but he paid them no heed. "Jean, am I a bad leader?"

She hadn't seen that one coming, and couldn't quite keep the astonishment from her voice. _Whoa, talk about out of the blue_. "Of course not. Whatever makes you say that?"

She was suddenly very glad they were the only two in the room. It wouldn't do for any of the others – especially the newer kids, and especially Jamie – to see Scott doubting himself. Scott was practically the little guy's hero, and everyone knew that childhood heroes had to stay strong and never yield to human frailties like self-doubt and disappointment.

"I don't mean out in the field," Scott pressed. "Well, I do, but not entirely."

"You haven't gotten us killed yet. That's always a good sign."

"Very encouraging, I'm sure." He nibbled his lip, a nervous habit he'd developed from his time in the care of social services and never fully shaken off. "What I mean is, am I a good leader the rest of the time?"

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"Am I too..." He rotated his hand at the wrist. Jean tilted her head slightly as he searched for the right word. "Am I too... much?" he finished, rather lamely. He obviously recognized how badly phrased it was, too, because he pressed the point even further. "I know the other kids respect me when I'm in uniform, but in civvies, am I the kind of person they can come and talk to? You know, about their problems and junk? Am I too much the 'fearless leader' in everyday life?"

"Perhaps it'd help if you told me what sparked this sudden self-analysis?" Jean's brows pulled together. Scott had been her friend for a long time – much longer than any of the other students – and even without her empathy it hurt to see him distressed.

Scott sighed, nodding. "Yeah, I guess. Ray just got back from detention."

"That's good. I think Ororo kept some dinner for him."

"The Brotherhood gave him a ride back. I... kinda went off on one at him for letting them past the gates." His expression turned a little pained, as if he knew he'd done wrong but was only just realising it. "It really riled him – he blew up, and some of the stuff he said made me wonder whether I'm letting being team leader bleed too much into the rest of my life."

Jean stifled a sigh. She could picture the scene perfectly, even if her diligently erected shielding meant she hadn't sensed their confrontation. Scott's dislike of the Brotherhood was only rivalled by that of Kurt and Evan, but where those two limited their dislike to certain individuals, Scott's loathing went beyond just petty head-butting with Lance Alvers. She was aware of the whole alpha male scenario between those two, but Scott's responsibilities for the X-Men had made him extra receptive to bad feelings towards anybody who threatened them – like an older brother leaping to the defence of a younger sibling. If an enemy targeted an X-Man, he acted as if it was a personal affront, and bore grudges against anybody that dared try and hurt them.

"What... exactly did you say?" she asked carefully.

Scott hung his head. "I, uh... I pretty much accused him of telling them all the secrets about the new security system."

"Oh, Sco-ott." She sounded exasperated and, just this once, didn't try to hide it.

He raised his hands. "I know, I know, I was out of line. My mouth just... it ran away with me. Again. But the sight of that idiot, Alvers, sitting right outside our front door, almost like he owned the place..." His grip on the can tightened, and from the way his knuckles blanched Jean could tell that, had it not been full, the metal would have crunched in his fist.

Alvers? That would explain the foreign psi patterns she'd vaguely picked up not long ago. Actually, that was the reason she'd put her shielding up a notch, since she'd sensed no malice and wanted to concentrate on her book without having loud thinkers pouring into her head.

Jean reached out and tapped Scott's hand, startling him from his inner litany against all things Brotherhood. The contact was brief, only enough to get his attention, but his cheeks flushed almost immediately – something she noticed and felt distinctly uncomfortable about, though she couldn't exactly tell why. She wasn't ready to dissect it either, and pushed it away to speak softly.

"Look, Scott, I think I can see where you're coming from. The truth is..." she paused, unsure of how to continue without hurting his feelings, "the truth is, you do sometimes... lay it on a bit thick. You get lost in being Cyclops and forget that you're Scott Summers."

"I do?" He sounded dejected, but not surprised.

"I'll admit, sometimes you let being team leader dictate what you do in regular life. With disastrous consequences. I won't go into detail, since you and I both know what I'm talking about, but if I say the word 'Middleverse' - "

"Yeah, I get you. Geez, you'd think I'd have learned by that mess, wouldn't you?"

"We're all still learning, Scott." _Oh great. Yep, just plough straight on in with full counsellor mode, Grey. He'll love that_. "Uh, that is... look, you're a good leader. Just don't let it go to your head, okay? Have some sky-time now and again."

"Sky-time?"

"Relax. The enemy's not always at the door, so you shouldn't act like they are. If I didn't sound too much like my mother, I'd say that there's a time and a place for everything. Cyclops belongs in the Danger Room and out in the field. Scott Summers should be in residence the rest of the time." She chewed the inside of her cheek. "Okay, corny advice alert. Ach, did that make _any_ sense whatsoever?"

"Actually, yeah. Yeah, it did." A warm smile tugged at his lips. "Thanks Jean." He leaned back in his chair, finally opening the can of coke. It hissed musically. A few frothy bubbles snuck out. "This is the point where I'm supposed to go and apologise to Ray, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"Thought so." He frowned, taking a gulp and then pulling a face. The coke had grown lukewarm.

Jean smiled at his expression as she reached for her book again.

"Although I think I deserve an apology from him, too."

The hand paused in mid-air. She cocked her head. "Excuse me? I thought you said that you yelled at him?"

"This is Ray we're talking about, remember? He just yelled right back at me. Pulled out a few blue words out of the bag as well."

"Ah. I see your point." Her brows drew together again. "Although..."

"Although what? I provoked the guy, I know, but some of the things he said were completely out of line. Can you imagine if Jamie had heard him? It took Rahne a week to convince him that 'bugger' really isn't a god one to use in conversations with Logan." Scott sighed, and it seemed to come from the soles of his feet. "Sometimes, I really don't understand him – Ray. I mean, I get the other new recruits – well, mostly. But Ray's always been... it's almost like he doesn't want to be here, or else the only reason he sticks around is to heckle. I mean, he pulls his weight in training sessions, sure; and he works hard in the sims, but sometimes it seems like that's all he does. All he _wants_ to do with us. The only time I've seen him take part in games and stuff is when he's beating up other people, or else sneaking into the Danger Room for more practice with his powers. He's never... he hasn't..."

"He doesn't have many personal relationships within the team," Jean finished.

Scott nodded. "Yeah. At first I thought he was just settling in, but now... I just wonder about the guy, is all. You know he's still friends with Tabitha?"

"Yes. So am I. So's Kurt. And?" Jean's reply was a little sharp, and Scott knew enough to back off.

"Well, she defected because she didn't fit in. I just wonder sometimes if he's planning the same thing."

"I'm sure he'd have done it already if he was planning to go join the Brotherhood," Jean said sensibly, smoothing her skirt and tucking her feet under herself. "Ray's a team player, and that's what counts. I'm sure he has friendships amongst the new recruits that we don't know about." She pulled a wry face. "We really don't spend enough time with them to know much about what goes on in their lives. Anyway, he wouldn't abandon us."

"Wouldn't he?" Scott seemed sceptical. "I don't know."

"He's just been under a lot of pressure recently." She stopped and looked about, gauging whether anybody was about to walk in on them. They weren't, but her voice dropped anyway, like she was saying something she shouldn't. "I think he's having problems at home."

"He told you that?"

"No, but he sometimes projects and I can't help but pick it up." She tapped the side of her head. "No off switch. And he thinks pretty loud when he's not concentrating on the shielding techniques the Professor and I taught everyone. He mentions his, uh," she paused, suddenly realising she'd unthinkingly strayed into a taboo area. Scott prompted her to continue, not understanding why she'd stopped, and she went on delicately. "He mentions his family a lot, and I keep getting emotional surges." She shrugged, trying to brush over her faux pas as tactfully as she could. "It's probably nothing, but ... just bear that in mind, okay? You said you wanted to be the kind of guy the team can go to outside the DR, so that's the kind of thing you have to watch out for."

Scott's shoulders took on a pensive slump. Inwardly, Jean cursed herself.

She generally tried to avoid talking about family in front of Scott – not because he'd asked her to, but because she knew that it caused him pain. Alex's return had been a jubilant event, but in some ways it had been a vitriolic blow because it emphasised to Scott what he'd truly lost. There had always been a chance, a hope that Alex could come back. His parents couldn't, and no amount of hoping would ever change that.

"I'm sorry," she started, fully intending to apologise for sticking her big foot in her mouth yet _again_, but he cut her off like he hadn't heard.

"Emotional surges? I'm surprised Ray's even capable of those. I thought his emotions only stretched from anger to even more anger, with maybe a dash of pissed off now and again."

"Scott, language!" She leaned across and cuffed his ear. He ducked away, laughing.

"What?"

"If you're gonna rag on the guy for naughty words, then you shouldn't use them yourself. Talk about hypocritical."

He just grinned, a little strained, but enough to let her know that he hadn't taken her slip up to heart. Jean breathed a sigh of relief.

"So, are you going to go make amends?"

"Can I at least finish my coke first?"

"I suppose we could stretch to that."

* * *

As a child, Evan had loathed milk. His mother had fed it to him, telling her son it would build healthy bones and make him big and strong, like his father. He'd only half believed her.

Strange how things turn out.

He hopped off the bottom step, casting a longing gaze at the curling banister of the main staircase. When he first moved here the temptation had proven too much and he'd slid down it before even unpacking his room. Then Auntie O had caught him and forbidden any further fun in that arena. In retrospect, it was probably a good thing, but he had a sneaking suspicion she'd had words with the Professor that had led to the ornate wooden pineapple – replete with very prickly skin and jutting out leaves – being put at the bottom of the rail. Obviously she didn't trust him to keep his promise, and he would've been annoyed if he could be bothered.

Evan was, to use a phrase Kitty had coined not three minutes after meeting him, one of life's candy-flossers. He let bad feelings dissolve around him because it just took too much energy and bad karma to hold onto them.

He crossed the foyer, but steered clear of the Rec. Room, since Scott and Jean were inside and deep in conversation. He'd played gooseberry too many times with those two to get suckered in now. It wouldn't be so bad, if only one or the other of them would realise what the rest of the Institute already had and acted on it.

He skirted the door like an army commando, achieving the kitchen without further mishap.

Or so he thought.

_Aw, man_. He surveyed the lone occupant of the kitchen table with a sinking feeling.

Ray was hunched over and had his back to the door, shoulders tight and neck virtually invisible. He didn't look up when Evan entered, but paused briefly in his meal to return the nod the younger boy gave as he attained the refrigerator. Evan opened the door and stuck his head inside before giving in to the impulse to roll his eyes. Just what he needed to bring his mood down.

For once, Evan was actually doing well enough in school that nobody was chasing him about poor grades and non-existent homework. Plus, that afternoon he'd managed to nail a boarding trick that had eluded him for months. He was, though not exactly on top of the world, quite near the apex, and had been coasting for most of the day on a good humour that not even Pietro's snide comments could dent. The last thing he needed was a sourpuss like Ray to inject a bit of doom and gloom into things.

The tension in the room was thick. Evan sensed the anger in the air even though his telepathic ability was exactly zero. Ray was steamed about something. That in itself was nothing new, but Evan really didn't want to stick around in case he said something wrong and the infamously volatile mutant blew his top, as per usual.

It was the same every time Ray let something get under his skin. He either lashed out at people, blew something up, or went and pummelled the hell out of the Danger Room. Logan had even set up a specialised programme he could use on his own, whereby he could smash up an entire room to relieve stress without fear of reprisal. He called it 'Sim 304: Berzerker Rage'.

Ray spent a lot of time in the Danger Room using that sim.

Evan really wished he were there now.

However, Ray showed no signs of moving, and Evan was forced eventually to emerge from scouring the fridge for dairy products and face him.

It was a little surprising when Ray just kept looking at his meal, fork poised over it but just hovering, as his eyes took on a glazed look. He seemed to be deep in thought, and just kept on chewing the same mouthful over and over again without swallowing.

Evan's eye fell upon the dish set on the table. Re-heated meatloaf – faboo. Auntie O had made it, so it was better than most meatloaves he'd tried, but it was still disgusting in his book. It was ghastly when it was fresh, but re-heated it was even worse – as he knew from experience when he himself had fallen prey to detentions and come home after dinner was finished. The loaf was saggy, and had collapsed in on itself in the middle until it was little more than a sad pile of brown mush in rapidly coagulating gravy. A spurt of green at the side of the plate was the most appetising thing thereon, and even that was only a few lima beans.

Truly, a revolting dish. Not that he'd ever tell his aunt that.

"You know, it won't get any better by staring at it."

He knew he shouldn't have spoken – he knew it. If he'd had radar it would've been picking up a signal that said 'get the hell out of there before he rips your face off'. However, as well as being a candy-flosser, Evan was also an inherent blabbermouth. He talked in the mornings, he talked at lunch, he talked while boarding – heck, he even talked in his sleep; something Kurt had seen fit to tell him when he dozed off in the Jet one mission and muttered something uncomplimentary about Kitty. Unfortunately, she'd been sitting right behind him at the time. The bruise had only just gone down.

In fact, many of the detentions in Evan's past had come from talking to his neighbour during class when he should've been doing work. When he was nervous, he often was struck with verbal diarrhoea, and babbled to anyone and anything that stayed still long enough to listen. It was a trait Logan found particularly irritating when they were doing recon.

Ray blinked, startled from his thoughts. "Say what?"

Evan indicated to the dish, and then took a swig from the bottle of milk. He didn't bother with a glass, since he intended to finish the entire thing on his own.

Ray glanced down at the meatloaf, sighed, and pushed it away. "Wasn't hungry anyway," he said, laying down his fork. He didn't make any move to rise, just sat there with his chin resting on his fist and looking thoughtful.

Evan opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again. "Are you... okay, man?"

"Mmmf," Ray replied with one of his usual, unrevealing grunts.

"It's just that you seem a little tense."

"Since when do you care?"

Evan blinked, not entirely sure how to answer. "I care," he said after a moment, "I was just wondering, was all..."

"Yeah, whatever."

Ray still didn't move. Evan quaffed the milk in the silence. _Dammit, say something. Anything. Talk about the weather, or school, or... or the state of the economy in Tanzania. Just don't stand there like an idiot._

He could've left. He wanted to leave – but something made him stay. Something about the way Ray stared at nothing, the way his expression would suddenly become pained and then switch back to neutral without any indication why. It glued Evan's feet to the floor with the conscience equivalent of adamantium nails through in his shoes.

Evan, despite a lot of things, was very loyal to his team, and disliked seeing any of them troubled, even if he didn't particularly like the person. Ray was definitely not among his best friends – in fact, he wondered whether he was even _on_ his list of friends – but still, he was a teammate, and if there was one thing Evan had learned in his time as an X-Man, it was that you helped out your teammates when they were in need.

So he pulled out a chair, startling Ray with the squeak of its legs on the linoleum, and plonked himself down. "You, my friend, look like you got the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Ray arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

"You know what they say."

"No, what do they say?"

Evan ignored the barefaced cynicism. "A problem shared is a problem halved."

"_They_ are full of shit." Ray reached for his own glass but didn't drink from it. His water stared back at him, baleful.

"I'm going to sit here until you tell me."

"You'll be sitting there a long time, then."

"I can wait."

Ray shrugged and chugged the water. Evan watched him, taking small sips of his milk.

"I'm still waiting."

"I don't care."

Evan exhaled noisily. "Y'know, you make it very difficult to be a good teammate."

"Like I give a crap?"

"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about. I try to be nice and you throw it back in my face." He frowned. "I'm just trying to help. There's no need to bite my head off about it."

"Yeah, well, don't. I don't need your help – or anybody else's. I'm good on my own, so you can just shove it."

Evan flinched. That seemed to have touched a nerve. He peered enquiringly at the older boy. Ray's face was set in a deep scowl, and he folded his arms, almost defiant.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment, until Evan started to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He stared around, noticing how the dirt encrusted the opening of the faucet in the sink, and that some spider had spun a cobweb across the ceiling to the light fitting. Little things caught his attention, and he tried studiously to ignore them, but Ray's glare kept forcing him to look away.

_Geez, you're the original Good Samaritan, aren't you Daniels? Can't even start up simple a conversation without blowing it_.

A cold breeze blew onto the back of his neck. He shivered, gooseflesh rising across his skin. Ray didn't appear to feel the cold at all, though his gaze remained icy.

Evan turned and spotted that the window was open. Large splots of rain thudded against the glass, increasing by the moment, and a rumble of thunder sounded ominously overhead. He went to close it, grateful for something to do other and stare and get stared at. There was a reason he'd always lost at staring matches in Junior High.

Grunting slightly, he heaved himself up to stand on the window seat and leaned out to pull the window closed. His arm got wet in the process, and he was abruptly glad the mansion was fitted with PVC frames instead of wood or metal, like the school. A flash of lightning illuminated the grounds outside. The wind was picking up as the rain started to come down heavier.

Very glad indeed.

"Look's like a real storm's brewing, and I don't mean Auntie O with PMS. Although I wonder if she'll," he swivelled around, only to find that he was suddenly talking to an empty room, "siphon off the lightning to... oh, never mind."

"Who're you talking to?"

Scott walked in the other door and Evan jumped, nearly toppling off his perch. He rounded and said fiercely, "Don't _do_ that, man. Nearly gave me a fuggin' heart attack."

"Sorry." Scott tossed an empty coke can into the trash and surveyed the unfinished meatloaf congealing on the tabletop. "Ray around?"

"He was." Evan hopped down. "I was talking to him, but he just disappeared the moment my back was turned."

Scott heaved a sigh. "Why am I not surprised?"

"You wanted him for something?"

"Yeah, but he's being difficult as normal."

Evan shook his head and picked up the plate to scrape the unpalatable food into the garbage. Usually he wouldn't have bothered doing anybody else's dirty work for them, but the mood took him to be helpful. "I dunno. He seemed kinda... off when I was talking to him. Still as prickly as ever, but something was on his mind."

"You too?" Scott ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. "Jean was just trying to convince me to be nicer to him because of home stress. She thinks his parents are acting up – giving him a hard time."

"Maybe they are. He never talks to any of us about them, so we wouldn't know if anything was wrong. A real cold fish."

"I guess."

"Well, I'm still in one piece, which shows he was distracted about _something_." He tapped his chin as he loaded the empty plate into the dishwasher, saw that it was full, and searched the surrounding cupboards for a salt tablet. "Maybe he's just stressed out about school? We've all got tests coming up, and he's not exactly the best student in the world. He could just be worried about his grades."

"Maybe."

"He could be worried about what his parents'll think when they get his report card."

"Perhaps."

"That would account for the whole parental thing. It's probably nothing."

"Mmm."

"Or he could be worried about the spleen-sucking aliens we spotted on radar this morning, who're gonna come remove our brains and replace them with pieces of burnt toast."

"Mm-hmm."

"You're a real fountain of conversation, aren't you?"

"Hmmm?" Scott blinked, and then jammed his hands into his pockets. "Sorry. Got distracted." A flash of lightning lit up outside, followed by another clap of thunder. "That sounds like it's pretty close."

"Just so long as it doesn't blitz the Institute. Do you know where the dishwasher tablets are kept?"

"Second drawer on the right. Hey, how come you're being helpful for a change?"

Evan shrugged, extracting what looked like an overlarge aspirin from a gaudy cardboard box emblazoned with a cartoon crocodile. He clipped it into the correct compartment. "Felt like it. I'm allowed to, now and again." He shut the door and turned the dial, stepping away as the machine powered to life. "I'm glad the Professor finally got one of these things. I was getting permanent prune thumbs whenever it was my turn to do the washing up. Dirty dishes for seventeen people's no fun."

"Tell me about it."

"I just did."

"Ha ha, Mr. Comedian." Scott glanced around as Evan moved to finish the remainder of his milk. "So, any idea where our little Ray of Sunshine went?"

"Not a clue. His room, probably. Or the DR to break stuff."

Scott groaned. "Once again, not surprised. I'd better go find him, or Jean won't leave me alone."

"And we couldn't have that, could we?" Evan grinned at him over the rim of the milk bottle. Scott's cheeks coloured pink as he left. "Be careful. Sometimes the door handle gets full of static if he's in a bad mood."

Scott waved over his shoulder.

Evan downed the last of his drink, running the bottle under the cold tap and placing it on the draining board to dry out. A wry smirk twitched his mouth. He shook his head at his own absent-mindedness. "Ray of Sunshine? Now why didn't I think of that?"

* * *

Ray lounged on his bed, shoes somewhere near the potted aspidistra in the corner. He hated that plant, but Ororo had donated part of her garden as a welcoming gift to each new recruit when they first arrived at the Institute. Her plants meant a lot to her, and it'd been a symbolic gesture giving so many up at once, so the aspidistra stayed.

He played absently with the edge of the bed sheet and stared up at the ceiling. He hadn't meant to snap at Evan. The Professor was always going on at him to be more cordial to his teammates, but sometimes it was so _hard_; almost like his mouth wasn't connected to the part of his brain telling him to slow down.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Leaving his books at school had definite advantages.

The thought of textbooks stirred another. He rolled off the bed and picked up his backpack, examining the damage with a critical eye. He'd never had to sew anything before, and didn't know the first thing about needlework. He wasn't in any hurry to learn, either, and wondered if he could just use even more safety pins instead. Or else just endure the sniggers and carry his things in a plastic bag –

The knock at the door startled him. He jerked his head up sharply. "Who is it?"

Scott's voice muffled through. Ray suppressed a groan. "It's me – Scott. Can I come in?"

"That depends. Are you just here to yell at me some more?"

"No, I – look, Ray, could you just open the door? This is difficult enough without holding a conversation through oak panelling."

_Difficult? _Ray brushed past his puzzlement and stood, crossing the cluttered room in a few steps.

Scott's hair fluttered a little as the door was wrenched open. He stood there, one hand raised as if to knock again, and Ray glared his patented glare.

"Yes?"

"Can I come in?"

"If you must. Say a word about the mess and I'll toast your ass." He gestured, and closed the door behind him.

When he turned around, Scott was standing at the edge of the miscellany liberally sprawled across the carpet and every other available surface. He looked as if he didn't know exactly where to step. Or where was safe to step, to be more precise.

Ray was the first to admit that he was untidy, and saw no point in trying to dress the matter up or defend it. When he'd lived with his parents his mother had always picked things up after him, hoovering his clothes before she'd let him in the house and diligently cleaning everything from top to bottom every morning. Yet that was more because she was a neatness freak than for any other reason. His father never said anything, but they both reckoned it was some sort of obsessive-compulsive variation.

Ray preferred his clutter to her well-ordered, almost militant approach to housekeeping. His room was a mess, but it was his mess, and it reminded everyone that this patch belonged to him and him alone.

Sharing a sewer as a living space would do that to a person.

There was a cardboard box on one of the chairs, still leftover from moving-in day. It had sat there for nigh on a year, battered and useless, occasionally migrating to the closet and then back again. He shifted it aside for Scott to sit down.

Scott picked his way through, wrinkling his lip only once when his shoe came up with something sticky on the sole. Politely, he held his tongue, and sat down very precisely, as if he was expecting the chair to spontaneously collapse under him at any second.

"Well?"

Scott opened his mouth, but said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be choosing his words.

Ray watched him, not sitting down. He gained a little psychological height that way, and the fact hadn't escaped him. However, it was a complete shock when the answer finally did come, and he had to wonder whether sitting down might've been preferable.

"I'm sorry."

"Excuse me?"

"For chewing you out like that. I'm sorry." Scott sighed and nibbled his lip. "I guess I got too caught up in the whole 'protect whatever the cost' schtick. Too many army movies, maybe. I... I had no right to treat you that way. You were right, I showed less faith than I should've, and I accused you of things you'd never do – so... I'm sorry for that."

Ray went to the French window, but didn't open it, instead leaning on the wall next to the curtain. Rain streaked the glass. Lightning briefly lit it up into a shining white portal. "Three sorrys. That's some apology." He licked his lips. "Some apology indeed..." He was stalling. He hadn't been expecting an apology – Scott wasn't exactly famous for them – and he didn't know how to respond other than with suspicion. "Did Jean put you up to this?"

"What? No. Well, I talked to her, yeah, but - "

"So she _did_ put you up to it."

"No, she didn't, I just - " Scott stopped, frowning. "Evan's right, you _do_ make it difficult to be a good teammate. Look, I just came to apologise. Whether you accept it or not is your own business; I didn't say it for my own peace of mind, I said it because I was out of line and you didn't deserve to have me accusing you when all you did was – ach, I don't have time for this." He braced his hands against his knees as if to stand.

"Sit."

"Look, I'm not gonna - "

"Just shut up a second." It was a command, not a request.

Scott glowered at being ordered around.

Ray stayed exactly where he was, closing his eyes to better organise his thoughts. He could feel Scott's glare like needles in his skin, but he ignored it. "I'm... sorry too," he gritted after several seconds. The words came out stilted, like they were difficult to say – which, in fact, they were. Apologies weren't really a part of Ray's nature, and before coming to the Institute he'd never had much use for them. There had been the obvious times when he'd cocked up yet another mission in the tunnels, but Callisto generally preferred to cause bruising first and listen to speeches later. Most of the time he was too busy tending to his hurts to say much of anything afterwards.

"Huh?"

That had Mr. Leadership bouncing backwards. "I ran off at the mouth and said some things I shouldn't have said, and I'm sorry for that. Sometimes when I'm angry... my trap doesn't always listen to what my brain's saying. Or it does, just the wrong bits."

Scott sighed. "I hear that."

Ray opened his eyes again, but kept them narrowed.

"What? I'm human. I make mistakes." Scott spread his hands wide. "It's just that the consequences of mine go up a level when I'm in uniform, so I've had to train myself into not making them. Sometimes... I overcompensate. Like tonight."

"Tough deal being leader?"

"You have no idea."

Ray cocked his head to one side, contemplating the older boy. Scott always seemed so together, the original Captain Responsible, that it was odd thinking of him as anything but that. "It's a pretty coveted role."

"I know. But some days I'd like nothing better than to give up all of this and just be a drone."

"A drone? Is that how you see the rest of us?"

"No, but – you know what I mean." His brows pulled together, like he was wondering how much he should be saying. "Some days I'd rather be following orders than giving them."

"Let me guess, it's lonely at the top?" Ray's voice had a sarcastic edge. He tried to chastise himself for it, with mixed results. Scott was trying hard to apologise, and God knows he'd said it few enough times before. _Give him a chance. You're supposed to be an X-Man, aren't you? And X-Men give each other chances. Try acting the part for a change. Maybe that's why you're so FUITH around these guys – because you never put in the effort to be one of them._

When they came, Scott's words were carefully chosen. "You have absolutely no clue. Every time we go out on a mission, it's up to me to make sure everybody comes back safe. I have a responsibility for their well-being, for their _lives_. If they get killed or hurt, it's my fault. Do you know how much pressure that is?"

Ray shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Never been on a mission before."

"For once in your life, Ray, quit being a wise-ass and just listen."

Ray blinked, surprised enough at the snappish tone to let him continue.

"I'm not the kind of guy who likes to complain, but some days... some days it's all too much, and I hate being leader. I hate being a mutant, period. After all, I'm eighteen years old and I have the power to incinerate a person just by looking at them. There's no distinction between friend and foe where that's concerned. What kind of leader would I be if my visor failed one day and I did that to one of my own teammates? Don't get me wrong, most of the time I love what I do. I love being in charge, and having all the privileges that go with it. But some days... some days..." He stopped, and then went on in a low voice, like he was divulging some great secret. "I left once."

Ray raised an eyebrow.

"No, I don't mean the whole Asteroid M thing. I mean I left – really left. I packed my bag, left a note, and hauled my butt down to the bus station. Didn't say a word to anybody. Didn't think they'd care." He sighed; a deep, heartfelt sigh. "I just wanted to get away. I even waited until the wee hours of the morning to leave, so that nobody would try to stop me."

"So what changed your mind?"

"I realised what I'd be throwing away." The answer was simple, but the implications vast. Scott looked up, expression inscrutable. "Does that surprise you? That I'd do something like that?"

"Well, yeah," Ray said truthfully. "You're Cyclops – the big cheese. You don't get scared and you don't get fucked around when things go wrong. You just get on with what you have to do and do it as well as you can. That's why the Professor picked you to be leader in the first place."

"Is that what you guys think?"

He nodded. Well, it was what he'd thought until a minute ago, at least.

"I'll let you in on a little something. I'm petrified. Each and every single time I have to put on that uniform or whip out that visor my stomach feels as though it's gonna have the bottom drop out of it. I may not look like I get flustered when I'm giving orders, but after everything's over and done with I always wonder if I could've done better, had I done something different. I run through things, pulling out all the worse case scenarios, what would've happened if I'd been wrong. What would've happened if I'd failed."

"Why?"

"Because..." Scott paused, mouth open. Ray watched as he let his arm drop and stared at the floor. "Because, when all's said and done, I'm still just a kid playing hero in a fancy suit."

Silence fell with all the weight of an anvil. Scott kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Ray just stood there, poring over what he'd said.

Just a kid playing hero in a fancy suit.

Small sentence, big admission.

_Why exactly did he tell me that?_ he wondered, but didn't ask it aloud. He couldn't help but wonder, though. He and Scott weren't exactly close. Scott had an older brother rapport going on with most of the other X-Men, but Ray had always kept his distance from such ties, preferring to think of him as just team leader and occasional carpool. He still wasn't quite sure of his place in the grand scheme of things at the Institute, despite how much time had passed since coming here, and Scott had never made any attempt to close the polite gap between them after the freak-show-ground-zero argument.

Yet here he was, telling secrets like Ray was some sort of counsellor or confidante. It was disconcerting on a number of levels, including the realisation that Scott was a real person behind the togetherness and gruff orders. Also, Ray couldn't help but get the feeling that some of the things aired in the last few minutes hadn't even been shared with Jean before, and she and Scott were as close as close could be without actually dating.

"I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this," Scott said, as if reading his thoughts.

_You and me both, buster. _"Maybe it's my sparkling personality."

Scott snorted, but not unkindly. "Maybe." He sighed, and broke the strange atmosphere by rising to his feet and dusting off his knees. "Sorry, I came to apologise to you and it ended turning your room into a psychiatrist's office."

"That's four sorrys. A new record." Ray pushed himself up off the wall and shrugged, unwilling to become bogged down in dwelling on the moment.

"And one from you. I don't think you've ever apologised to anyone before, let alone me."

"Meh." He shrugged again. "Do you accept it?"

"Of course."

"Then that's that, isn't it?"

Scott looked at him. For a second Ray felt rather uncomfortable under his scrutiny. He wore the same look Callisto had perfected, and frequently treated him to whenever he came back from a mission he'd bungled. "What?"

"Y'know, sometimes I really don't understand you."

"What's there to understand? What you see is what you get."

Scott made no reply, but turned and picked his way over to the door. Ray didn't follow except with his eyes. Suddenly his throat felt inexplicably tight, like he'd told some atrocious lie. He swallowed. The feeling didn't go away.

"If you ever need to talk about anything – anything at all, you know you can go to someone, don't you? The Professor, Beast, Ororo," Scott faltered, "even Logan, if the mood takes you."

"And if I don't mind having my giblets hung out to dry."

That drew a smile, but it was fleeting. "Seriously though, they're there if you need them. So are the rest of us. You don't have to bottle things up to the point where you're smashing stuff all the time. After all, Xavier's the world's best counsellor. Who better to air your grievances to than an empath?"

_He might understand, but only up to a point. Nobody else would. After all, he was there. He saw where I came from. You didn't. You don't know what I did. Not even **he** knows that part_.

"Ray?"

"Yeah, I know. An understanding ear and all that shit."

"Of course, if you do decide to go speak to Logan, you'd better not use so much of the bad language. Ororo picks on him something chronic about cleaning up his potty mouth, and he likes to take it out on others who get away with it. Believe me, admiring your own giblets would be a walk in the park by comparison."

Despite himself, Ray felt a small smirk emerging. "Thanks. I'll remember that."

* * *

To Be Continued

* * *

_Review Responses:_

**Me** **(Harry Wriggle) – **Me, prompt? I'll have to fix that. Can't have anyone think me reliable, can I? ;) I appreciate the review, babs, so thanks.

**DaHippo – **Glad to see another NM fan out there waves

**Ivan Alias – **A paranoid android? Now there's a phrase I've never heard before. But I digress. I wasn't about to ask for your name, address and social security number. Although your chequebook and a copy of your signature might be nice ;) And I stand corrected. I think _Ally McBeal _might have quoted _When Harry Met Sally_, and that's why that name popped into my head first. Meh. I only ever watched half of one episode over my mother's shoulder, and I'm not a great fan of Meg Ryan, so that line was always going to be a sticking point. And I love you for quoting Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young – although Emmerson, Lake and Palmer are also dear to me, and America have had my heart in a death grip since I first heard _Horse With No Name_.

**Amelia Glitter – **I'm glad to hear that you like it. Hopefully it will live up to expectations.

**"The Price is Right" Fan – **Thank you. You let me know I'd achieved what I was aiming for vis-à-vis characterisation, and for this I am eternally grateful.


	6. A Faceless Adversary

* * *

Chapter Four – A Faceless Adversary

* * *

Logan was a creature of habit in some things. Patrolling the mansion was one of them. Every night, come hell or high water, he made a sweep of the grounds before systematically checking inside. Only after he was certain everything was secured and everybody safe did he allow himself to rest. 

It was a practice he'd taken up from Day One, all those years ago when Charles rescued him from the recesses of his own bestial mind and brought him here to recuperate. At first it had been a way of saying thank you to his unusual saviour – after all, how many people could say a seventeen-year-old kid had rescued them from the life of a mindless animal? Then it had progressed into a sort of guardianship, protecting Charles in case that psycho, Cain, ever returned and did more than break his spine.

However, as Charles matured and moved away to college, Logan had also moved on. He explored far and wide in search of answers to his past, returning sporadically. He reclaimed his old habits whenever he did, but it had become a ritual without much deeper meaning until Charles brought the first of the kids into his care.

He still remembered coming back one day to find a couple of children playing in the pool – a girl and a boy, no more than thirteen if they were a day. Since he hadn't given forewarning of his arrival, Logan hadn't known who they were or what business they had at the mansion until he got there.

"Students," Charles had said. "Here to learn and live their lives in safety."

Logan left again, but returned more often, staying longer each time. The outside world seemed to have no answers for him – or at least none it was willing to give up – and he watched the two kids grow, just as he'd watched Charles all those years before.

They got to know him, thawing him a little after his travels had toughened his shell. He found himself missing them whenever he was out on the open road, wondering how they were doing. If their burgeoning academia was denting their ability to play and be kids. If either of them could benefit from learning a good right hook. He noticed the smirk on Charles' face when he turned up on the doorstep, but paid it no heed. For his part, Charles remained silent concerning the embryonic connection children have an uncanny knack to create.

More arrived. First the Elf, then Half-pint. Logan stayed, finding a new purpose within the Institute walls. More came, and his resolve hardened. These kids were soft, untrained – easy prey, and unable to defend themselves. No matter how potent their powers, they were still just kids. They needed protecting, and though he'd never admit it to anyone, he refused to believe that anyone could do the job better than him.

Thus it was that his old habit found new meaning. Logan was on the prowl again, but this time he had people to protect, and that made him even deadlier to anyone foolish enough to penetrate the Institute.

Tonight, however, the phrase 'hell or high water'was taking on a whole new meaning.

_Where the hell did all this pissin' rain come from? _he thought, sliding down an embankment and blinking as water got into his eyes. '_Ro never mentioned no storm tonight. At least not to me._

Of course, the fact that he hadn't seen Ororo all day might have accounted for that, but Logan was in no mood for technicalities. Rain meant his enhanced senses were of little use, since all foreign scents were washed away, and the sheets lashing against his face meant he couldn't see more than three feet in front of him at any given time. His familiarity with the layout of the grounds helped immensely, but it was still tough going.

He took a moment to shake himself, dog-like. Considering his guardianship of the Institute, the irony of the move wasn't lost, but somehow his increasing saturation took the edge off it. He moved on with a barely suppressed growl that his brain was making comedic connections instead of taking point on the area.

So far things had proved all clear. He'd surveyed the front of the mansion, combing the initial grounds up to the gate and checking the security system was up and operational. It was, but experience had taught Logan not to rely on machines, so he continued his methodical patrol regardless. Machines could give false readings, or be fooled by tampering. He could not.

However, he was fast approaching the point where he just wanted to give up and go back inside where it was dry and warm. Healing ability was a great advantage, but it did absolutely diddly-squat to help with numb fingers, and his famous nose felt like it was about to drop off with the cold. He grunted as he brushed more water from his eyes, and mused that he really shouldn't have worn his leather out. The rain had ruined it within five minutes of stepping out the door. By now it was irredeemable.

_Half-pint must be rubbin' off on me. Never would've considered the state of my clothes on a patrol before._

He almost missed it. Had it not been for the flash of lightning emphasising all shadow, he probably never would've noticed the faint shift of black on black. He froze immediately.

Thunder grumbled, hot on the heels of the lightning. The storm was right overhead. Logan felt the oppression of it squeezing his skull. Shaking off this unwelcome feeling, he strained all his senses, trying to filter out the steady thrumming of rain when his nose proved unable to help. His eyes narrowed, but darkness swallowed the terrain, and falling raindrops made it difficult to see much of anything except the looming bulk of the thicket. Tree branches whipped in the wind, making things even more difficult, but he persevered.

He knew he'd seen something – something that didn't belong out here.

He didn't turn around, but slowly moved his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the spot he'd seen the movement.

Nothing.

_Dammit, where's 'Ro with a lightning bolt when you need her? Can't see crap in this squall._

No convenient flash this time. He concentrated so hard on that the backs of his eyeballs started to ache.

A tiny shift rewarded the pain. Logan's mouth twisted into a grim line. He'd been right. Something was in the grounds, and it was definitely something that didn't belong. It moved silently, almost as good as himself when he glided forward, stalking it with a hunter's grace.

Almost.

_Whatever it is, it's good_, he was forced to grudgingly admit, at the same time dismissing the notion that it could be one of the kids sneaking out. None of them were even close to him for stealth. Beast was, perhaps, if he tried. Maybe the elf in a pinch, or Wolfsbane when she was wolfed out. however, this thing was definitely not Kurt, nor their resident blue gorilla, and it was more certainly bipedal.

It slipped from him several times. He had to stop stock-still to see it again – never more than a fleeting glimpse, but enough to tell him that he wasn't following a stray animal. It was too big, and moved with too much grace. He'd been caught out before, trailing cats through the undergrowth, and had long since come to the conclusion that all Bayville felines must have come from the same flawed forefathers.

This... thing was puzzling. It moved like a Bayvillian moggy, but was obviously too big.

_Sabertooth? Nah, too small for that. _

There had been no circuses or fairs in Bayville for many a long month, and the news had made no mention of any escaped zoo animals, so he crossed that off the list. Besides which, even though he didn't trust the Institute's security system, he was aware that nothing confined to animal intellect could get past it. The lasers would've finished it off long before it got three feet in, let alone this far. Which also led on to the little matter of how anything had gotten over the wall in the first place.

Yet it moved with such a random pattern, and changed direction so many times that Logan eventually wondered if it _was_ in fact some kind of animal. It claimed no specific direction, and more often than not avoided the Institute instead of heading towards it, as he would've expected had it been one of the Brotherhood or other such enemy mutant. Not that the stealthy movements and ability to evade him so easily hadn't already clued him into the fact that it wasn't any of those inept bozos. The Brotherhood couldn't sneak their way out of a paper bag. Logan had long since lost any scrap of respect he'd had for that bunch of poor quality –

He stopped. It was gone again; vanished into the dark like a wraith.

Raindrops slid down his face. He silently searched the gloom for any sign of it – the crack of a twig, the shush of a leaf. He was hyper-aware. Any aberrant sound would've set him off.

Nothing of the sort reached him, but the sensitive state left his muscles tensed – something he was glad of when the shadows to his left suddenly exploded. Something struck his side, gouging a deep gash right through the leather and driving into the flesh beneath, before he rolled and expertly threw it off again. He leapt to his feet, claws popped, but it was already gone. A snarl rippled his lip.

That confirmed the suspicion that the sneak wasn't friendly, at least. Not that it did him much good right now. He could feel the wound closing up, but it galled his pride that somebody – something – had managed to get the drop on him.

He growled. It wouldn't happen again.

_Looks like our little visitor's fast as well as sneaky. Wonderful. _One hand traced the half-moon curve it'd taken out of his jacket. _Strong, too. Even better. _Wet or not, leather was a tough substance, which was the primary reason motorcyclists wore it. Its protective qualities were sometimes all that stood between having four limbs and not, especially if a bike went into a slide and took the rider with it. Yet the intruder had cut straight through it like tissue paper. Not an encouraging development.

Seconds passed, impossibly long. Nothing moved, though Logan tilted his head this way and that. He was almost convinced it was going to attack from the same spot again when something rammed into his back, knocking him off balance. Needles dug into his shoulders, his jacket proving useless again.

Logan fell, but twisted around to slash upwards with his claws. Yet the thing was gone again, and he landed heavily in the sodden litter. Leaves scattered everywhere as he sprang back up. To lie down in battle was to die.

This thing had a curious method of attacking. He knew it was there, so the element of surprise was gone, and it was obviously aware of that. However, the fact hardly mattered. Logan was no fool, but it took him a moment to remember where he'd seen such tactics before. Half-lidded memories of watching a pack of wolves take down a moose came to the fore. His brain focussed on how they dove in to slash at the massive beast, drawing blood and then darting away again to avoid being trampled. Animals used such strategy when the prey was bigger than themselves and could do harm if engaged more fully, wearing it down until it was effortless to finish off.

_So, you're definitely smaller than me. Thanks for clearing that up, bub._

The light shift of shadows and wiry frame he'd been following supported such an assumption.

Logan's mouth set into a grim line as he tensed himself for the next assault. If he knew the style he could be ready with an effective counter. When something slid along the ground to his right he met it as it leapt up, grabbing the scruff of the neck with one hand and hoisting it aloft. If it wasn't on its feet then it couldn't dodge and slash and he could properly tell what he was dealing with.

He was only mildly surprised when his fingers sank into a loose flap of skin instead of a shirt collar or similar, leaving his opponent to swing freely in front of him.

Pain suddenly erupted in his chest, blinding and sharp. He grunted as the creature bit down hard on his hand and scrabbled at his wrist. Blood flowed – not enough to seriously wound, but enough to piss him off.

And a pissed off Logan is a very dangerous creature indeed.

He snarled – a wild, untamed sound. For a moment the whatever-it-was seemed to falter, but only for a moment. The snarl was abruptly cut off as it twisted its body around and something sharp scratched a deep score across his cheek, lancing into his left eye. The faint wet pop was indistinguishable against the rain.

Logan roared, dropping the bundle and clutching at his face. Healing factor repaired injuries, but it didn't stop pain, and right now he was in a world of it. His eyeball throbbed, vision swimming. He cursed as it faded to a hazy red and then went completely dark.

_Crap, that'll take a bit of time to heal. Time I ain't got to spare in this fight._

He heard a hiss, like air coming out of a tyre, and the sound of scattering leaves. A presence jumped to his left, taking advantage of his newly blinded side. It obviously didn't know him very well, because he anticipated such a manipulative move and turn to meet it, thrusting his claws out and up. He couldn't see properly, but there was a satisfying squeal. The creature dropped to the ground and backed away a few feet.

As if on cue, a burst of lightning bathed the area in a white glow, and Logan finally got a good look at his attacker, despite his bum eye.

He was surprised - and not a little vexed - when he did.

It was small, no bigger than Jamie, or perhaps Amara at a push – wiry, but still tiny compared to what he'd been expecting. Rain plastered down a coat of fur draped in little more than rags that had once been clothes. From the way it crouched its body clearly shared several attributes with predators. A wide, flat head, a broad mouth and thick, squat neck. It narrowed pale eyes at him, hissing through a mouth stuffed with fangs. The hiss was the first and only noise it had made throughout the entire scuffle.

He noted quickly that it cradled one of its arms, and a liquid darker than water coursed through powerful, clawed fingers. He'd wounded it then, but not enough to take it out completely; just enough to hinder it the same way it'd hindered him. The score was even.

From what he could see, the feet were almost paw-like, with unsheathed claws still coated in the last vestiges of his own blood where they'd raked his chest and face.

This was what he'd been fighting? This had done what Sabertooth couldn't? This little shrimp? He felt suddenly galled, and his view of his old nemesis dropped a couple more notches.

Everything took a split-second. Then blackness descended once more, and a round of thunder drowned out everything.

Logan tensed, feeling hot, sticky blood run out of his wounds and onto his shirt. They'd been deep, and took a little longer to close up than he would've liked. When the next assault came he winced because it reopened them partially, and his pain threshold was high, but not damn high enough.

The creature shot low, belly hugging the floor. It twisted itself around to slash at his ankles with what felt like razors. It was trying to cripple him, cut the tendon and knock him down where he couldn't protect himself so well. Yet more wolfish behaviour from something that looked like Garfield's evil grandchild.

_Clever_, Logan thought, leaping a good few feet in the air and coming down with the intent of spearing it. _But not clever enough_.

His claws, however, hit only soaking wet leaves, and though he waited gamely for another assault, it didn't come. He was left standing, squinting around and wondering where the hell the thing had gone.

_Damn_.

This was a lot tougher than it should've been. His left eye throbbed hideously, a distraction, and he spat out a mouthful of blood like it would help relieve the pain. His senses were peaked, but all he could see was rain, and all he could smell was gore – his own, and the other mutant's.

He'd already come to the conclusion that he was facing a mutant. It was all the creature _could_ be. A small, more sensible part of his brain demanded why it hadn't showed up on Cerebro if that was the case, but he drove it back again. No distractions during a fight. Easy way to get yourself killed, or at the very least, wounded so bad you'd be feeling it for a week afterwards.

Dammit! Where did it go? It obviously didn't know about his healing factor, or else it wouldn't leave such large gaps between attacks. Its strategy was clever, but his mutant ability negated it, sewing him back up while he waited for it to try and carve fresh bits off.

Oh fu – there! To the left! His head snapped up, and he saw the slip of matte black on glossy wet backdrop. Just a flicker, but it moved with enough purpose that he knew it had given up fighting him for an entirely different tack.

It was heading toward the Institute.

_Oh no you don't, bub! Not on my watch._

Abandoning stealth for speed, Logan tore through the undergrowth in pursuit. The figure chanced a look behind it at the noise, and then did likewise. The open ground between the trees and the mansion provided little cover anyway, but now it concentrated solely on streaking like a living bullet instead of keeping itself concealed in shadow.

This thing was dangerous. If he was having problems subduing it, however slight, there was no telling what might happen if it got into the mansion. Logan didn't even like to think. His claws were already out, but he suddenly felt the need to make some other show of aggression, to show this thing that he had its number and was about to shred the paper it was written on.

So he threw back his head and roared.

It was a wild sound, the kind that makes hair stand on end, and it was much, much louder than his earlier attempt – all raw anger and the primal desire to protect his own. Logan hadn't spent years guarding these kids just to let some skinny little reject from a Hammer Horror movie break in and hack them to pieces. He poured every ounce of feeling he had into that single, gut-wrenching bellow, not even noticing when windows lit up seconds later.

* * *

Jean sat bolt upright, every nerve alive and dancing. The back of her neck prickled. The end of a scream rolled around her bedroom. 

She was out of bed and stumbling towards the door within seconds, wiping sleep from her eyes and wrenching it open to see what was going on. Outside in the hall she could see several others doing the same. A figure later identified as Bobby dashed past at something approaching mach three.

"What's going on?" She grabbed the nearest available person, who happened to be Kurt.

He shrugged at her, still in his sleeping attire and devoid of a housecoat. The expression on his face and faint whiff of brimstone told her he'd 'ported out here in panic. Plus, where only the hairs on her neck had stood up, he looked like he'd just crawled out of a dryer.

"Ich habe keine Ahnung. I have no idea, but I heard a scream."

"Me too." She blinked, trying to focus on the world of the living she'd been catapulted so abruptly back into. "Sounded like Beast."

"Or Logan." Kurt gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. "Sounded like it came from outside."

"Logan," she said decisively. "He was probably patrolling. But what in heaven's name could have made him scream like that?"

"Search me." Kurt shrugged again, tail wrapping and unwrapping itself around his leg with a dexterity that made the habit look like it was a longstanding one. He glanced down the corridor to where the new recruits were thundering past and cramming themselves against the far window – the one that overlooked the front grounds and the road leading into town. "Nothing good."

Jean had to agree. Logan was a man of few words, but when he said something, it was always worth listening to. Likewise, when he made pissed-off animal noises, it meant that something was most definitely up.

She tugged on Kurt's arm. Together they traced their way down the hall, circumventing the younger students and locating a window of their own. It didn't have such a good view, but at least they didn't have to beat their way through a mass of flailing bodies to see anything.

Not that there was anything actually worth seeing. The pane was smeared with heavy rain and dead leaves that had blown up and glued themselves to the other side. Where they could see through, the grounds looked dark and forbidding. It was the sort of night that nobody in their right mind ventured out in, thus making it ideal for rapists, murderers, serial killers and Freddy Kruger.

_No more late night horror movie for you, young lady_, Jean thought, peering out and seeing nothing.

Eventually she tutted, raised her hand to guide her telekinesis, and used it to wipe the water away like a windshield wiper. Of course, it clouded right back up again, so she concentrated and a small dome of displaced air appeared, shielding the glass and making it easier to look through.

"That's a really neat trick," Kurt said in a flippant tone that belied how anxious he was. His tail and still-tufted fur were doing a fine job of saying that on their own. "Handy, too."

"I can't see him. Kurt, your eyes are better than mine. What's going on? Is he even out there?" They had to be quick, before Ororo, Beast, or even the Professor emerged to herd them all back to bed.

Kurt pressed his face to the glass, steaming it slightly with his breath. "Nada," he said after a moment. Jean groaned, but stopped when he spoke again, voice tight. "Wait! Wait, I think I see something! They've moved into view now..."

"They?" Jean pounced on the phrase.

"It's Logan and... someone else. They're fighting." Kurt sounded anxious.

_And well he might_. Jean knew that Kurt wasn't a violent person by nature. When push came to shove, he was willing to go that extra step to defend people and the ideals he believed in, but the little elf really preferred the more diplomatic approach – which was intensely ironic, considering how his appearance had sparked such violence against him in the past. Kurt's nightmares were the primary reason she'd trained herself into shielding while she slept, and talked the Professor into 'lagging' her room.

"Can you see who it is?" If Sabertooth had returned, she wanted to know about it. she shook off the last remnants of sleep to concentrate properly. Logan was a tough old boot, but he wasn't invincible and he might need help.

"Not really." Kurt skittered up the wall, startling her a little. "Ach, they've moved out of range. I'd see more if this window were open." His tail flicked at the sash, but Jean shook her head. A glance at the frame had already told her that this was the window Evan had accidentally blown out of the wall a few months ago, and had consequently become an purely display one ever since. Nothing short of ripping the entire thing out again would do the trick anymore.

"Is Mr. Logan gonna be okay?"

Jean whirled at the voice and was confronted by a trio of Jamies. Her increased shielding was still up, so she hadn't sensed his approach, but she didn't need her telepathy to see the fear written on all three faces.

"'Course he is," said Scott, appearing behind him and laying a brotherly hand on one shoulder. "If anyone can take care of himself, it's Logan. I mean, would you wanna mess with him?"

The Jamies seemed mollified, but only slightly. One faded away.

Jean met Scott's gaze over the heads of the remaining two. He had his glasses on, as per usual, but there was a tense slant to his shoulders. Scott was worried too, and she nodded at him, once again not needing telepathy to know what he was planning. She'd known Scott long enough to already tell what course of action he'd take, and after shepherding the Jamies back into the cluster of younger mutants, the two of them started off down the hall.

_Where are you going? _Kurt's mental 'voice' called out through their well-established link. Jean winced. She could tune out most things, but direct thought got through her shielding anyway, and Kurt thought very loud when he was panicky.

_To see if Logan needs any help_.

_I'm coming too._

_No, stay here and make sure nobody follows us._

_But - _

_Kurt, please. The others, they're excitable and... and... _Great, even inside her own head she didn't want to finish that sentence. Like anybody other than Kurt could hear her and deem it rude?

_They'll get in the way, I know_. Kurt was solemn. Jean briefly glanced over his shoulder to meet his intense eyes. _Just don't do anything stupid, ja? Geben Sie acht._

_Ja._

Gradually, the sounds of the other students died away. Jean and Scott took a slightly longer route to the front entrance, so as to avoid the stairs to Ororo's attic and the other faculty bedrooms. Instinctively, Jean extended her mental shield to encompass Scott as well so that the Professor wouldn't sense them. Or at least she hoped he wouldn't. If he scanned especially for them he'd know what they were up to, but she was counting on him being too involved with the other kids to notice they were absent.

She was concentrating so much on not letting any chinks into her armour that she wasn't entirely focussed on her surroundings. So when a something suddenly touched her shoulder she almost made a noise that would have turned her face as red as her hair. Scott whipped around, hand already at the side of his glasses, but dropped his arm when he saw who it was.

"Hey," said Kitty. She was half phased through the ceiling, and dropped the rest of the way as they watched. It had been her foot that touched Jean's shoulder, since she hadn't anything else with which to get her attention.

Jean instantly felt foolish, and was somehow glad Kitty and Rogue no longer shared a room this year. Rogue's scowl and surly manner was something she really didn't need right now, and though she didn't like to admit it, the sight of Rogue in her jammies wasn't something she wanted Scott exposed to any more than was absolutely necessary.

She blinked. Where the heck had _that_ come from?

"What's going on?" Kitty asked.

Quickly composing herself, Jean glanced around, recognising the hallway as the one directly below Kitty's room. "Shh, keep your voice down. We're trying to go incognito here."

"Something's going down outside," Scott said in a hushed voice. "Logan caught an intruder, we think. Might be Sabertooth – at least from the sounds of things. He's giving him hell, but we're going in as back-up in case he needs it."

Kitty's eyes grew round. "Is he, like, okay?" It was no secret how close she and Logan were. Some might consider their relationship almost that of a surrogate father and daughter – especially after the incident in Canada, when she and Kurt went along with him on an impromptu trip down memory lane. Jean had been there when the chip was removed from Logan's head afterwards, and had borne witness to Kitty's relentless vigil by his bedside until he woke up.

Scott's jawline was grim. "That's what we're going to find out."

"And make sure of," Jean amended, seeing the brief flash of anxiety on Kitty's face.

"Not without me you're not." It was said with such vehemence, such veracity, that neither of them really felt up to arguing with her.

Jean sighed as she swelled her shield to accommodate yet another person. It was a bit of a strain, and she was glad she'd been fortifying her defences recently. Had this been the start of the year, before her powers evolved that bit more, she never would've been able to manage it.

A wry smirk twitched her lips. She never thought she'd ever be grateful for that day in hell. Funny how things turned out.

"Ready?" Scott was impatient, she could tell by the tone of his voice. She shot him a quick look, making sure he didn't say anything that would upset Kitty. Distressed, she wouldn't much help, and might even prove to be a hindrance. They all needed to stay as level-headed as possible, and keep their wits about them.

Which was why, when the door they were standing in front of suddenly opened, she bit down on so hard to keep from squeaking that she drew blood from her tongue.

A thatch of quills and quick, dark eyes appeared. The room beyond had no light on, and the occupant was wearing black – just what they needed to keep their spirits up.

"What the fuck is going on out here?" Ray demanded, voice low.

Jean groaned, and not just from her hurt tongue. Of course, she should've realised – Ray's room was Kitty and Rogue's old one. No wonder this bit of corridor looked familiar. At the beginning of the semester Kitty had always been accidentally phasing through the door on him, forgetting she'd moved up a floor, which had made for some interesting moments first thing in the morning and last thing at night. In fact, she could almost swear Kitty's cheeks were darkening at the sight of Ray in his nightwear, but the hallway was so gloomy it was difficult to tell.

"Mr. Logan's in a fight," Kitty said simply, maybe even a little defensively. "We think Sabertooth might be in the grounds, so we're going to help him."

Ray's eyes moved between her and Scott, and then on to Jean. They nodded, verifying the story. A strange look passed between the two boys, but Jean spared it no more than a passing interest as Ray spoke again.

"So where're the others?"

"Upstairs playing peekaboo at the window. Kurt's making sure they don't try anything stupid before the other teachers arrive."

"You mean like rushing to the rescue in their PJs?"

Jean looked down. She was forced to admit that her nightdress, though comfortable for the Land of Nod, wasn't exactly battle-worthy.

"Point," Scott said, "but it's not like we had time to change or anything. Things are getting pretty hairy out there, and I'm not just talking about Sabertooth."

Ray nodded, as if Scott had just said something vastly important instead of justifying their clothing. He opened his bedroom door a smidgen wider, slipped out, and closed it behind him.

Kitty immediately stuck out her lip. "Oh no, he's not coming with us."

"And why not?" Ray's voice didn't rise in volume or pitch, but there was a distinct edge to it.

Kitty folded her arms petulantly, face settling into a truly pubescent frown. "He'll mess things up," she said to Scott and Jean, talking over Ray's head like he wasn't even there. "The new recruits always - "

"Kitty," Jean warned, noticing the dangerous glint in Ray's eye. He was daring her to finish that sentence, and Jean mediated like crazy to stop either of them from doing anything that might get them caught. "Look, we don't have time to argue. Every second we waste, Logan's getting his butt ki – uh, fighting outside. Chances are he'll need our help, and we're not getting anywhere by acting like pre-schoolers. Kitty, you may not have noticed, but the new recruits aren't exactly new anymore. Ray's at a higher level of training than you were when the Professor let you out on your first mission."

_And look how well that turned out. _

She immediately chastised herself for thinking such an unkind thing, but the memory of Rogue's first meeting with the X-Men hung over them like a shroud.

Kitty pouted, but said nothing more. She obviously remembered it, too.

Jean turned. "Ray - " then she stopped, not sure how to go on. 'Don't mess up' seemed pretty trite after what she'd just said. 'Don't prove me wrong' wasn't much better, so instead she simply threw another mental shield over his thoughts, took a moment to get accustomed to the extra strain, and motioned that they should move on.

"Finally," Scott muttered.

The rest of their trip was uneventful, which was good in that they weren't discovered and ordered back to bed, but bad in that it allowed the tension and anxiety in their small group to rise. Jean felt it. Having encapsulated all four of their minds in her shield she was privy to more thoughts than her defences would usually allow, and the combined emotions simmered, pressing like an iron band around her skull. She threw up a few more layers, but had to give up after a while. Shielding took most of her attention, and if she didn't start concentrating on where she was going she'd fall flat on her face – very heroic.

Kitty left off grumbling about Ray as they rounded a corner and came out at the main staircase. The glass doors of the front entrance were shut, rain making it impossible to see anything more than blurry shapes that could've been anything. Her worry for Logan increased by the second, until eventually Jean had to say something or risk having her brain explode from the pressure.

"Kitty..."

"What?" Kitty gave her a blank look, and then looked contrite. "Oh, sorry."

Jean sighed as the excess emotion was abruptly sucked back in, leaving her mind free to move again. Those techniques she and the Professor had been teaching the others were really paying off. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

"Now who's messing things up?" Ray asked, voice barely above a whisper but smug all the same.

Kitty shot him a look, and Jean really didn't want to be in his shoes the next time it was Shadowcat's turn to programme the after-school training session.

"Quiet, all of you." Scott's gaze was fixed on the door. They hugged the shadows out of instinct, clinging to the gloom of the banister as he surveyed whether it was safe to go or not. "Okay, let's move."

"Shall I phase us through?" Kitty asked.

"And have the alarms wired into the door short out and go off?" Ray snorted. "Even I knew that."

Jean received a mental image of Kitty sticking out her tongue, but Kitty's actual face never flickered.

Silently, they descended, slipping across the foyer like moths, to where the security system blinked accusingly at them. Scott glanced around before flipping the switch to unlock the door, and they dashed through, Jean last of all so that she could use a strand of telekinesis to switch it back on again. If Sabertooth was about then they didn't want him getting into the Institute, although the irritating voice at the back of her mind wondered just how they expected a flimsy glass door to keep him out.

Outside was pure pandemonium. Rain came from the sky in sheets, sluicing down their faces and plastering down hair and clothing after only a few seconds. Jean flipped her head, wishing she'd had the forethought to tie her hair back. She couldn't see Logan anywhere, but the sounds of frenzied battle said he was close by. Kitty and Scott were both already on the driveway, with Ray not far behind them on the steps.

_I don't see anything_, Kitty 'said', obviously troubled but keeping her emotions commendably in check. _Where is he? Jean, can you do a scan?_

Jean tested her reserves. No, she was already concentrating so much on shielding them all that a mental scan would stretch all of about three feet. She made a split second decision, concluding that since they'd made it this far they were going to get found out anyway. Taking a deep breath, she let go of all three foreign minds, calling her distended powers back to her and giving them only a second to recuperate before throwing out a scan.

"Kitty! To your left!" It wasn't Logan – or Sabertooth, surprisingly – but a mental signature was heading straight for the younger girl. From the oddly jumbled surface-thoughts Jean gleaned only that it was frightened and desperate, and probably going to do harm to anybody or anything that got in the way of its headlong flight.

Kitty turned just as a dark shadow powered through the air towards her, on the way down from a great leap. She threw her arms up in front of her face, but made no move to run. It passed straight through her and skidded to a halt on the other side of her body.

Jean felt astonishment radiating from the new mind; a mixture of shock at seeing four people that most definitely hadn't been there before, and flat out stupefaction that one of them appeared to be incorporeal. It turned, staring at Kitty, but could do no more than that as Logan suddenly appeared like a spectre and tackled it to the gravel.

The stranger didn't make a sound, but Jean reeled back at the mental screech that accompanied its fury. Hot anger drowned out its fear for a moment.

Logan grunted as it writhed in his grasp, scratching and biting at all bits of available flesh until it could wriggle free. He was at the wrong angle to use his claws without stabbing his own neck, and it sped off into the murk with a parting hiss not unlike an incensed cat.

Kitty rushed to his side. "Mr. Logan! Mr. Logan, are you all right?"

He looked up at her, and even from this distance Jean could tell that there was something wrong with his left eye. There was a brief stab of shock from Kitty, then anger from Logan. "What the _hell _are you doin' out here?"

"We, uh..." Kitty hesitated, struck by the deep cuts and gouges lining his face and neck.

Jean wasn't exactly too enamoured of them herself, as she approached and saw the full extent of the damage. Logan was a quick healer, but not even he could dress up the multitude of painful abrasions, some of them still dripping blood. His suspect eye was squeezed closed, but Jean could see beneath the folds of swelling flesh that it was filmy and white, and strangely concave.

_That... thing blinded him_. The thought was ridiculous, but she couldn't argue with the evidence laid out before her. The mere idea that Logan could be hurt in such a way was disturbing enough in itself, but the fact that it wasn't his arch-nemesis who had done it just took the cake.

Suddenly Jean didn't feel quite so sure of herself. She glanced around, sending out another scan to check where the intruder was. It was an unknown entity, and she didn't want it taking them by surprise.

"We came to help," Kitty said.

"Get your asses back inside right _now_," Logan snapped, so forcefully that even Scott looked shocked.

Jean saw his questioning look, but she was too concerned with combing the immediate area as fast as possible without missing anything.

Had it left completely? It wasn't a particularly unwelcome thought, but somehow she doubted it. Their luck with this sort of thing didn't like simple outcomes.

She swept wide, caught a speck, and homed in on it. The mind she brushed was a tangle of incoherent thought and feeling, and for a second she was shocked at how unordered it was. Even the most basic minds had a fundamental order, but this one shifted beneath her like seismic plates, never allowing her probe to find an opening that wouldn't trap her in the odd psychic webbing.

Still, she could tell where it was. It was close.

Far too close.

"Scott! Look out!" The cry ripped from her lips. How had she missed it? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Scott turned towards the direction the intruder had taken. Both Jean and Logan yelled, as a dark shape detached itself from the gloom behind him and speared into his exposed back instead. He went down hard, hitting the concrete with a meaty thud. Rain thundered down all around them, dulling the sound, but Jean heard the whoosh of air leaving his lungs very, very clearly.

She also felt the slice of fear as his glasses smashed. And the pain as something dug into his shoulder blade.

The creature was sat atop him for no more than three seconds before Jean unleashed her telekinesis, a wall of raw energy slamming against it and sending it flying. The new strength at Jean's command swatted it like a fly. It smashed face first into the wall, before tumbling limply into the bushes.

Except Jean wasn't looking when that part happened. As soon as she delivered the blow, her feet were already moving, and when the sickening crunch sounded she had reached Scott's side and was kneeling beside him.

"Scott," she said again, hearing the wet slaps of the others' approach.

"Remind me never to get hit by one of those," Kitty muttered.

"Scott?" There were dark stains on his back. His eyes were closed, and for a second Jean feared the worst. Her hair billowed vengefully around her shoulders, but resettled itself into a sodden mess when Scott groaned and pushed himself up.

"Scott?" said Kitty, crouching on his other side and helping him to turn over and sit. She picked up the frames of his glasses, and Jean saw that they were bent out of shape so much that repairing them was a dubious prospect.

"Well, that went well," Scott said glumly. "Did we get him?"

"And how!" Kitty couldn't quite keep the note of awe from her voice. Jean flushed with embarrassment. "Jean, like, totally squished him like a bug! You should've seen it – oops." She touched her lips, conscious of her faux pas. "I mean, you shouldn't have... no, what I mean to say is... actually she... maybe I'll just be quiet now."

Logan had moved past them and was poking around the bushes. Jean looked up, noting that his claws were still unsheathed.

"Is it dead?" Kitty asked, and Jean was suddenly struck by the possibility. She'd never used that amount of power on a person before – well, at least never to anyone she wasn't sure could take it, like Blob. The effect on a normal body would most probably be devastating. Her guts felt like they were rearranging themselves for the second time in as many minutes.

Could she – had she actually... killed someone with her powers?

The rain seemed that little bit sharper, the air colder, and the sky so much darker.

Logan leaned in toward the point of impact. Jean strained her eyes, but she couldn't see the wall and any blood that might be left on it. Of course, the rain would've washed it away, but the sense of not knowing was intimidating. She bit her lip as she waited for their teacher's response.

He never gave one, however – both because there was no need, and because at that moment a snarling mass of coiled fury exploded into his face. The onslaught was so fierce that he was forced to take a step back before ramming his claws at it, which, for Logan was the equivalent of running screaming in terror.

The creature vaulted over his head, avoiding the adamantium with a hairsbreadth to spare. Jean heard Logan growl as he spun on his heel, but the rain obfuscated everything to the point where all she could see was a dark object running towards the mansion front steps.

"Red! Stop it!" Any qualms he'd had about their help seemed to evaporate, and he bellowed the order out like a drill sergeant.

Jean hesitated, conscious of how much power she was using this time and willing to use only as little as she could for fear of any injuries the intruder had already incurred. She stretched out her arm and plucked it carefully into the air, letting it hover six inches off the ground and dragging it backwards, away from the steps. It hissed, struggling, but she'd held onto a Quicksilver-induced twister before, so this was easy by comparison.

Then, quite suddenly it stopped moving. Jean wondered why a second before a keening wail started up inside her head. It was so woeful, so intensely frustrated, and so very loud that she gasped from the sheer intensity. Her entire skull felt like it was shattering from the inside out, and somewhere she heard a voice call her name as what felt like concrete rushed up to greet her.

_Hold on_, Logan ordered.

_I can't!_

_Hold **on**. _It wasn't advice, it was a command.

Yet even though she tried to do as he said, Jean's grip slipped. The wail raised pitch, flinging raw emotion at her like bullets. Fear, pain panic, anger, pain, pain – all of them speared into her head, searing through her thoughts like fiery brands. The need to get away, to find safety, and to spill blood coursed through her veins. Her vision became cloudy red as images both actual and imaginary streaked through her mind.

The wail stopped as soon as the creature's feet touched the ground, and Jean fell back into her own consciousness. Somebody was holding her up. She blinked blearily at Ray, trying to reorganise herself. He said something, but it was muffled. All she could do was blink, as the horrifying visions faded away and left her feeling oddly hollow inside.

Ray jerked his head up. She turned, a thousand needles ploughing into her skull with the movement, just in time to see the creature facing off against Logan. He'd positioned himself in front of the doors and was looking at it with a stance that clearly said 'bring it on' in that unsubtle way that only he could. The intruder had its back to them, but even through the rain she could tell that it was considerably smaller than him.

Swimming back to rational thought, Jean struggled to sit upright, the more self-conscious part of her brain forcing her to make sure her nightdress hadn't ridden up. She was surprised when Ray's fingers suddenly tightened in her shoulders, and then again when he didn't let go. She tried to shake him off.

"Ray?"

Logan roared, lunging at the intruder, and her head snapped around. _Ow!_ She was going to have one killer of a migraine when this was over.

The two fighters merged into a single shadow as they grappled. The intruder was as intent on getting into the Institute as Logan was on keeping it out, and they parried back and forth, taking their skirmish several feet in each direction as they slashed, bit, growled and hissed their way across the tarmac.

Once, Logan scored a hit, and they all heard the intruder squeal, loud and long. Ray's fingers tightened again, and Jean squirmed.

"Ow! Ray, you're hurting me."

He wasn't listening, and Jean felt a splash of raw incredulity that could only be his.

The intruder backed away from Logan, holding its side. It hissed, and he beckoned at it with his claws. "Come on, let's dance some more. I'm just gettin' warmed up."

It surveyed him for a moment, then turned tail and sped towards the cluster of kids instead. Logan shouted, pursuing it, but it had a head start. It leapt into the air as it neared them – although whether it was jumping them or trying to jump _over _them wasn't clear.

Someone else grabbed Jean's shoulder, and she felt the strange emptiness that always accompanied Kitty's power. It was disconcerting when the creature passed straight through them – not trying to jump over, then – and even more so when Kitty quickly released them all and leaped to her feet.

Intangible as she'd been before, Kitty's foot was now very, very solid. It connected with the bemused creature's head in a roundhouse kick that showed just how much she'd been paying attention in the DR. Likewise when the heel of her hand caught under its jaw, snapping its head back like a released spring.

It stumbled backwards, off balance. Kitty tried to press her advantage the way she'd been taught, dropping into a crouch and swinging her leg around to knock its feet out from under it. She looked surprised when, instead of trying to regain its feet, the creature went with it and flipped into a back handspring that would've made even Kurt proud. It was a practised move, trained and polished, and much more inclined towards a human fighting style than any of the other wild attacks it had made thus far.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Kitty yelped, as it then head-butted her chest and flung her against the ground. Her skull hit the concrete, bounced, and Jean felt the burst of stars that signalled her an abrupt plunge into unconsciousness. Kitty didn't get up again.

A moment later Logan re-entered the fray, exuding outrage and moral fury, as well as just plain old fury. He collided with the creature while it was still preoccupied with Kitty, and the two of them rolled over and over, a snarling, spitting mass of teeth, claws and tufts of wet hair ripped out at the roots.

Instinctively, Jean moved to the fallen girl's side. Kitty was breathing, and a quick check revealed she'd done little more than pass out, although when she came around they'd have to watch for concussion. Though not the most ideal situation, it was better than the alternative.

Scott was still sitting not three feet to her left. She laid a hand on his arm, assuaging the rising alarm she could feel in him. Scott felt useless without his glasses or visor, unable to help, or even so much as open his eyes without potentially hurting a teammate. From past times when it had happened she knew that simply letting him know that someone was nearby was the best option. The assortment of (to him) unexplained noises had put him on edge, and he grabbed for her hand when she touched him.

"Who's that? What's going on?"

"It's me," she said, not using their mental link since her brain chose that moment to remind her how much it still hurt.

"Jean? What happened?"

"Kitty's out cold. Tried to take it hand-to-hand. Logan's still fighting the good fight - "

"How's he doing?" The question was worried, as evidenced by the fact he cut her off before she could finish.

"I can't tell. The rain..."

A bolt of lightning lit up the scene. Jean blinked in the sudden glow.

Logan and the intruder were still locked together in an exceptionally angular shadow, but he seemed to have the upper hand. She watched as he twisted to one side, snagged his foot around its legs and sent it crashing to the ground. One of the simplest self-defence moves on the planet, but still incredibly effective.

The lightning died, but she didn't need it to see the adamantium claws glint as they rose above his head. Sudden panic infused her as she realised what he was about to do, but for the life of her she just couldn't seem to move fast enough. Her telekinesis seemed sluggish, her telepathy non-existent, and though she tried to call out, her voice seemed intent on gurgling before it formed any kind of coherent words.

He couldn't! He mustn't!

The pressure on her hand increased. "Jean, what's - "

A sudden burst of bluish-green energy re-lit the area brighter than any lightning bolt could, crackling as it turned raindrops to mist while they were still falling. Logan flew backwards, as it arrowed into his chest, encountering a tree branch that splintered and made the rest of the airborne journey at his side. He skidded, rolled, and grunted to a halt a full twenty feet from where he'd been.

Anybody else wouldn't have been able to survive such a concussive blast, but after a few tense seconds, Logan twitched and moved. When he stood up his front was smoking and his face, though half-hidden by the rain, was murderous.

Jean stared. It was all she could do. It took her a moment to realise that there was a new shadow standing between Logan and the figure he'd been about to slice to bits.

"Back. Off." Ray's voice was flinty, devoid of any emotion. Even his trademark rage was nowhere to be seen.

Logan growled, advancing with a menacing step. The intruder hadn't moved from where he'd felled it, but Jean saw that its chest was still moving, rapid and breathless.

"You'd better have a damn good explanation for that, cowboy."

Ray said nothing, but slivers of electricity curled around his raised fists in an unmistakable warning. It was a miracle he hadn't fried himself with the first discharge.

Jean got the feeling he wasn't so much stopping Logan from doing something he shouldn't as protecting the creature. The feeling magnified, as Ray turned and dropped to his knees by its side. It flailed its claws at him, trying to rake his face, but was obviously a lot weaker than it had been before. He pinned one hand at the wrist, and Jean felt a stab of surprise from the foreign mind.

"Hothead?"

She blinked, astonished. The lack of vocalizations during the skirmish had made her assume that the creature couldn't speak at all, which she realised now was foolish, narrow-minded guesswork. The voice she could hear was harsh and rasping, though, and seemed unsuited to human speech. It was almost like a hacking growl, tweaked to form words, but arguing with the process every step of the way. It didn't echo so much as reverberate around them, like a cough in a cave.

"My God," she heard Ray say, disbelief nearly palpable even to the most casual of listeners. "Fuck – I wasn't sure... I didn't think it was you... I – oh my God."

Logan approached them, but seemed unsure what to do next. Ray obviously knew this intruder, which threw a whole different light on things. He paced redundantly in the background. His wilder instincts demanded blood, and his concern over Kitty wanted vengeance, but he could do nothing without having to go through Ray first. Uncertainty swirled around him like mist.

"Why're you here?" Ray went on, oblivious to everything and everyone else. "Are the others... Feral, what's going on? How did you find me? Why aren't you in the tunnels."

"Not safe," the voice said, phrasing strangely disjointed.

"What's not safe? The tunnels?" He looked around, peering into the gloom like he could part it with his gaze alone. "Why?"

"Death."

Jean felt nauseous at the wave of dread that swept across her. She gagged involuntarily. Scott's arm wrapped around her shoulders as she sagged, and she closed her eyes, forcing her stomach back down.

"What do you mean?"

"Death chase. Hunters, killie-killie. Come down, all gone. Nothing left. Gotta go, gotta leave 'fore they get. But nobody left to take. Gone." None of it made any sense. It was like snippets of other sentences cut up and sewn back together with punctuation in all the wrong places. Jean found the response difficult to follow and impossible to understand.

Yet it had a startling effect on Ray, demonstrating that it meant something. Something important.

"Come down? Upworlders?"

"Fighty-fight, then death. Blood, water – gone. Washed away. Leave, get out. Upworld only place left, but not safe either. Peoples everywhere. Nasty peoples. But can't go back. Only death-smell down there. All gone. Get away before bad things happen more."

"Oh God," said Ray, and this time he didn't say it with incredulity, but with raw, unpalatable horror. "Oh shit. All gone? Everything? Every_one_?"

No answer. The pregnant pause gave birth to puppies that ran off whimpering.

"Feral?"

The voice was weak, like its owner was swimming in and out of the waking world – not an impossibility considering the punishment it had taken. "All gone..." it said haltingly. "Nothing left... only... only..."

"Only what?" Ray sounded unexpectedly distressed, a far cry from the eager anticipation he'd fairly glowed with earlier. "What?"

"Only... death..." It trailed off, caught on the last sound. Jean felt a twang as it joined Kitty in oblivion.

Logan folded his arms, suddenly standing over the pair. "Kid, what in blue blazes is going on here?"

Ray looked up at him, more soulful than anyone would've ever guessed he could be. "They're all dead. She wouldn't leave the tunnels alone – not without her sister... they... I never thought it'd happen, I – oh shit."

Logan grunted, looking between the slumped, bleeding figure and the Institute, where lights were flicking on all over the place.

Finally, he looked across at the trio who'd come to his rescue and ended up having to be rescued themselves. Jean couldn't see his eyes to meet them, but she sensed him looking directly at her.

"Y'got that right, bub."

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *

_**Reviewer Responses**_

­­­­­­­­­

**Ivan Alias - **Busted regularly blare on my younger sister's speakers, and we share a wall, so I've learned to live with them. Your review was just full of coincidences. You mention Douglas Adams when I've got an SFX article about the new _Hitchiker_ film spread across my lap. You talk about Radiohead when I've just been clearing out a chest of drawers and found the stub to a ticket from an old concert of theirs I went to back in '98. And you quote from We _Gotta Get Out of This Place _the day I finally track down Space's album _Spiders_ and spend the afternoon listening to their version of that song. Creepy...

**Angel of the Fallen Stars - **Thanks for the review, and I hope your computer clears up and stops spazzing on you.

**Amelia Glitter - **Yup, I think that's the word that best describes Ray: an enigma. He never shows all of himself, even to those he trusts (who are few and far between). His motives are nebulous and maybe not quite pure, but he values those relationships he _does_ have and is fiercely protective of them. You just can't predict his reaction to anything. Well, apart from the cussing. So, yes, an enigma.

**Red in Dead -** I appreciate the review. What prompted your psyeudonym, by the way? It intrigues me.


	7. Fairly Flummoxed

* * *

* * *

Chapter Six - Fairly Flummoxed

* * *

* * *

Hank McCoy liked to think there wasn't much that could surprise him. Having lived most of his adult life with the threat of turning into a blue furred cousin of King Kong hanging over his head, followed turning into said gorilla look-alike in spectacular fashion, in some circles he might've been considered right. The fact that he now lived with, amongst others, a werewolf, several telepaths, a human pincushion and a doughnut-loving demon, and encountered them all without batting an eyelid only supported the assumption.

Yet he had to admit, right now, he was fairly flummoxed.

He was stood in the Infirmary, rummaging through a cabinet for an IV line and bag and desperately wishing he wasn't teetotal, it wasn't nearing midnight, and he was still in bed.

Behind him, Kitty sat on an uncomfortable chair next to Scott and Jean. The two girls were wrapped in blankets, their sodden nightwear slung over a nearby radiator. They each nursed painful heads – although they were painful for vastly differing reasons.

Scott, on the other hand, was stripped bare to the waist and had a swathe of gauze taped to the shallow claw wounds on his back – something that had made Jean blush and avert her eyes, Kitty grin, and both of them wince for doing so.

It had been discovered when Scott tried to stand up that his 'fall' – of which Hank knew precious little, having been told few actual details other than it had somehow managed to occur while he and Ororo were shepherding the students back into their rooms – had been taken badly. The ankle was, mercifully, only sprained, but he wouldn't be able to walk on it for a while – "Great. I can fend off Magneto without a scratch, but I can't fall over on my own driveway without causing serious injury?" – and Hank resolved to thank Sam, who, one bored Sunday afternoon, had taken it upon himself to repair the Institute's sole set of crutches for something to do.

Hank had thought all the excitement of the evening was over when he finally managed to calm the other students down. He had received the shock of his life when told by the Professor to go immediately to the med-lab, only to find there a handful of students much the worse for wear, a newcomer he didn't recognise, and a very irritated Logan.

The latter now stood in the corner, grumbling and with a cold compress to his still-healing left eye. Hank had ascertained what Logan already knew – that the eyeball had been punctured and, being such a delicate part of the body, subsequently infected; which accounted for why it hadn't healed as fast as the rest of him. Yet he hadn't the time to tend the self-repairing mutant when others who couldn't heal themselves needed his help much more. So Hank pottered around under half of Logan's watchful gaze.

Eventually he found what he sought, clanging the cabinet drawer shut and advancing towards the gurney whereupon lay their newest arrival. The small, damp body seemed inexorably tiny in the large Infirmary. Hank felt a sudden pang of pity as he lifted the arm and searched through matted yellow fur for an accessible vein. After a second he stopped, tutting at his own absent-mindedness, and crossed the room for the electric shaver, bought for Kurt when he'd once needed a tetanus jab after a mission.

Kitty groaned, her voice echoing around the room. Nobody had said anything for quite some time, and they all looked at her.

"Oh, man, I am, like, so never doing that again. My head feels like it has its own personal tickertape parade going on. Are you sure you guys didn't squeegee my brain off the asphalt?"

"No, and I'm glad to hear it," said Hank, and then amended himself. "Uh, that you won't be doing it again, not that your head hurts."

He was nervous. He always had a tendency to babble when he was either nervous or deep in thought on a delicate subject. Since the situation didn't really suit the latter description, he sighed and took a moment to collect his thoughts. However inane, medical procedure required a clear head, not one full of chaff and fug.

"Do we have any more aspirin?" Jean's voice came out thin. She looked through only one eye, and that was slitted against the light.

"You've reached your quota already, I'm afraid," he said lightly. More lightly than he felt, at any rate.

"Damn."

"Excuse you."

Scott shivered. He'd been dried so as not to catch pneumonia during his continued state of shirtlessness, but the Infirmary wasn't the warmest of places. He scratched absently at the gauze, caught Kitty's reproving look, and stopped. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better and closed it again with an almost audible click.

They were all of them dancing on eggshells, and it was painfully obvious. Not least of all because the reason for their doing so was sitting next to the gurney with a mixture of a scowl and heartbreak etching his face. Smalltalk was all they allowed themselves to indulge in, and not one of them so much as mentioned what had happened outside other than to assess the extent of personal damage. Logan retained a stony silence throughout, which was much the equivalent for him, since it plainly stated that he didn't trust himself to open his mouth without saying something he shouldn't.

Five separate gazes watched as Hank carefully removed all the fur from the inner of their newcomer's arm. The flesh beneath resembled nothing so much as a plucked chicken, and Hank thought as such as he inserted the IV line and steadily avoided meeting anyone's eyes. The figure didn't so much as twitch as the line was inserted, and for the umpteenth time he extracted his penlight from the pocket of his pyjamas and peeled back an eyelid to check pupil dilation.

At any other time, the idea of Beast in his jammies would've been a comical sight. Especially since the jammies in question had been a present from Jamie last Christmas, so Hank felt obliged to wear them even though they were so ridiculously hideous on him – navy blue and, strangely enough, exceptionally baggy in places despite his large frame. He'd thrown a labcoat over the top to try and obscure the pattern, but one half of Donald Duck's face still peeped out accusingly at the world.

_Not the best choice of attire to inspire confidence in my medical abilities_, he thought dryly. He could feel Ray staring, and could pinpoint the exact second when his gaze drifted from doctor to patient and back again.

Silence fell thick around them, muffling even thought. Hank ignored it, but it pressed in on all sides, creeping into his brain and making him shiver involuntarily. He wasn't a great lover of silence. A little-known fact of his younger years, and one that would have surprised his young charges, was that in college it had always been he that was called upon to turn his music down. Of course, that might have also had something to do with the choice thereof – Tchaikovsky, Sibelius and Gershwin weren't the most popular choices amongst those with whom he shared a roof. Still, his dislike for ultimate quiet hadn't lessened with time, and he bit his tongue several times when he almost said something and then changed his mind.

Nobody else seemed inclined to break it, either. Conversation had dried up into tiny exchanges – most of them stemming from Kitty. Yet her own confusion as to what was going on stunted even her wagging tongue, and she spent much time staring at Ray, wondering after the answers he'd failed to provide since the rain drenched tête-à-tête on the driveway.

Suddenly Ray spoke, startling them all. He hadn't said two words since carrying the newcomer down here, other than the first cryptic comment to Logan and a staunch refusal to let anyone else carry the trespasser.

"What're you doing?"

"Your friend, in addition to her various hurts from your scuffle," Hank eyed Logan, whose gaze told him exactly nothing, "seems to be suffering from a mild case of malnutrition. Put simply, I'm trying to replenish the nutrients in her body. Nothing too drastic, but I hardly think she'd be able to do it herself in the traditional manner, given her current circumstances."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kitty straighten, but she didn't have to speak for him to know why. The gender of the newcomer was ambiguous at first glance – _Especially in the middle of a storm, I'd wager_ – but it was indeed female. Studying Biology both as a degree and as a hobby had imbued Hank with a certain degree of knowledge about the animal kingdom. He surveyed the figure on the bed as essentially human, but infused with feline characteristics of a specifically female persuasion – a wedge shaped snout, whiskers, instantly recognisable white striped ears, and the sort of lithe, queenly aura that cats carry with them even at rest. The yellow fur, claws and tail had helped too, as had Ray's referrals as 'she' and 'her'. but Hank was sure he could have figured it out on his own, anyway.

Ray stayed ramrod in his chair, back muscles clenched. He mumbled something that only Hank's excellent hearing – and, indubitably, also Logan's – picked up on.

"Not my friend."

Hank blinked, but refrained from probing the matter. Young Master Crisp seemed in no mood for light conversation, let alone a grilling on his connections with a young, heretofore unknown mutant who just happened to be found sneaking around the Institute grounds at night with ostensibly violent purposes towards the occupants therein.

_Well, who wouldn't want to talk about something like that, now?_

However, not everybody was as tactful as him. Scott cleared his throat and looked at Ray through the lenses of his spare shades – procured from his bedroom by Hank the way down to the med-lab.

"Ray, tell us straight. What's going on here?"

Surprisingly, Ray answered. "Nothing."

Scott licked his lips, exchanging a glance with Jean. She shrugged, and from the pained look on her face Hank knew they hadn't been engaging in any kind of psychic conversation. She honestly didn't know what to say or do.

"Who is she?"

"Nobody."

"You, um..." Kitty added her voice to the mix. "You called her something outside. You called her 'Feral'. Is that her name?"

"No."

"Oh, right." She paused, mulling over her next question. "Is it a codename, like ours?"

Ray said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on Hank's hands as he rearranged the newcomer's limbs to accommodate the IV. Kitty's brows pulled together, but Scott laid a hand on her arm and shook his head.

It was a shock when Ray let out a sigh and crumpled back into his chair, arms flopped over the sides and chin dipped onto his chest. He mumbled something, but this time it was loud enough for everyone to hear. "Might as well, I suppose. If it's true... what's the point in keeping secrets like that? Didn't help them in the end, did it?"

He was evidently talking to himself, but shifted his eyes over to them as he went on. "Her real name's Maria. Maria Callasantos. She just started calling herself Feral when her mutations appeared – for obvious reasons." He gestured flaccidly at the fur, fangs and limp, trailing tail. "She prefers it. Won't let anybody call her Maria to her face, and if they do it behind her back, she finds out."

"They?"

"The other Morlocks." It was said in an offhand voice, but the subtle clenching of his jaw and fingers, the fractional pause and the general tension in the air didn't go unnoticed. Hank ventured a guess that saying that one sentence had taken more courage than Ray was ever likely to let on.

He cleared his throat. "Permit me to intrude, but if memory serves, the Morlocks were a purely literary creation found in H.G. Wells's novel 'The Time Machine'."

Ray answered with a snort. "Wires and crossed, Mr. McCoy. The Morlocks I'm talking about are a completely different breed to the ones in any tatty book. Don't kid yourself; they're as real as any of you. Otherwise, what do you call that right there?"

It was Scott who replied, albeit tentatively. "A mutant?"

"Damn straight."

"So the Morlocks are mutants?"

Ray said nothing.

Kitty shifted in her seat, the hard plastic digging into her legs. "So, if they're so real and so... um, mutant, then how come we've never heard of them before? I mean, surely Cerebro or the Professor - "

"They've never been found because they don't wanna be found," Ray bit out. "Same reason you've never seen 'em before. They didn't wanna be seen." There was an edge to his voice that Hank didn't care for, but the equally strained light in the boy's eyes quelled any reprimand he might've given. It seemed that Master Crisp was finding this question and answer session a little strenuous.

_Perhaps a little too strenuous._

Hank wasn't a bone fide genius, but he'd been lucky enough to be born with more than his fair share of intelligence, plus enough common sense to set it off in the right direction. He'd often reflected upon that as the reason he'd given up a lucrative and well-respected position at the Brand Corporation to teach High School kids. The pay was bad for a man of his talents, the respect non-existent, and the workload severe, but he'd been able to walk away from the antithesis because his common sense told him he was in a job he hated, and would always hate for the rest of his life.

Thus it was that when he regarded Ray at that moment – tense, sullen, gritting out every word like it was as painful to keep in as it was to let out – Hank put two and two together and came up with a provisional five he'd later ask of the Professor and be told was exactly correct.

Scott nibbled his lip; an odd habit for someone his age, Hank thought. "Um, Ray? How, um... how do you - "

The question was cut off as the Professor's psychic 'voice' spoke into their minds like a tannoy. It was directed at only a few, but projected to the other inhabitants of the Infirmary as well, in so doing subduing any conversation.

_Hank, would you be so kind as to send Ray up to my study, please? That is, if you're quite done with him, and he doesn't mind._

Hank looked at Ray, and then nodded – a redundant gesture, but one that made him feel better. He was still getting used to this disconcerting style of conversation. Some days wondered if he would ever get the hang of speaking without needing to watch a person's face for a reaction. _He's fit and healthy apart from a few scratches. Whether he'll want to leave yet, though... _"Ray?"

Wordlessly, Ray rose from his seat and walked towards the door, med-lab percale pyjamas rustling slightly in the ensuing silence. He bid nobody goodbye, and nobody said a thing to him, but they all watched as he flopped to the door on bare feet.

It slid back with a hiss, but before he could pass through Hank impulsively grabbed the boy's shoulder. Ray looked startled at the contact, but otherwise his face remained steadfastly neutral.

Hank took a moment to regard his gaze, and then fell back on the man who had helped him through so many of his own crises with centuries-old wisdom. He called upon college memories of standing atop a stage, the only science student willing to be seen in a drama society Shakespearean production, and quoted directly. "No legacy is so rich as honesty."

The response was brief and tiny; a mere flare of something in Ray's eyes that could've been his power, had it not been clearly apparent he wasn't using it. They he broke away and was gone down the corridor, skin sticking audibly to the metal until he entered the elevator.

* * *

* * *

Charles Xavier sat behind his desk, already careworn face made a little more haggard from the events of the evening. He was a patient soul, as evidenced by the school in which he now sat, but even he had his limits.

In the absence of Logan and the older students he'd been forced to intervene in herding the younger children away from the windows and comforting a few distraught minds in the process. Jamie in particular was always quick to distress, demonstrating his young age in panicky situations. Thus, Charles was tired. Plus, having Logan mentally complain at him for the best part of an hour was taking its toll. For while Logan remained silent in the Infirmary, his mind was firmly engaged in telling Charles what he should and shouldn't be doing with their new arrival, inserting many graphic details when the anger in him overruled good sense.

Even the most carefully erected mental walls had chinks in them. Logan had known Charles long enough to find ways of wheedling his way through if he had a point he felt strongly enough about. The skirmish outside had damaged both his pride and his body, as well as riling the protectiveness he felt for the students, thereby whipping him into a rage he needed to vent on something.

Unfortunately, Charles was it.

_Some days I truly wonder if these gifts really are just that_, he thought to himself with a heartfelt sigh, redoubling his efforts to temper the gruff mutant and failing dismally.

He'd successfully tuned Logan out when there was a knock at his door. He already knew who it was, and so forewent his usual ritual of asking and instead simply bid the person enter.

Ray did so, slumping in a chair without being told to. He picked at the armrest and refused to meet Charles's eyes.

Charles forgave the rudeness. The boy had a lot on his mind, and he tactfully re-attuned his shields to allow him more privacy. Ray was a very loud thinker, and his mind was preoccupied enough that he was forgetting his shielding. Thank goodness Jean's headache prevented her from picking up on some of his more personal thoughts.

Nonetheless, Charles's defences hadn't been enough for him to escape the patchwork of thought and emotion Ray exhibited outside, nor the confusion and fear of the newcomer either. Thus it was that he called upon Ray now, without having spoken to him beforehand about the matter. There was no need to explain the grounds behind the audience, after all. He already knew what was going through the boy's mind.

So that was what he opened with, "I think you know why I've called you."

"Saved by the bell?" Ray's voice was flat. He didn't look up from where his gaze was welded to the floor. "Let's pretend I don't. Care to explain?"

Charles sighed. Ray wasn't going to make this easy. He had every right to be snappish, given the current situation, but it really wasn't something he needed when he was bone weary and in serious need of a good, restful night's sleep.

A clap of thunder sounded outside, resounding around the dark oak-panelled room.

_Or just a night's sleep, at least._

Charles steepled his hands, a practised gesture, and one that always seemed to clear his head; as if by looking thoughtful he could somehow become it. "All right then, let's start at the beginning, and with the question I think you know I'm going to ask. How much do you want to tell the other students? There's no getting away from it, Ray," he went on, garbling his words slightly in an effort to get them out before Ray could cut him off. _And I'm supposed to be a public speaker? _"I'm not going to mind-wipe anybody, so don't even bother asking. They all saw what happened tonight, or will have heard about it by tomorrow morning. Plus there's the little matter of your friend's continued presence. They'll want answers, as will the other faculty members. Ororo and Hank are good people, and I don't wish to lie to them. I'm sure they'd understand. But... if you don't want them to know about your connection to the Morlocks, then I'll have to respect your decision. Them, or the rest of the Institute."

He let out a brief sigh, surprised at Ray's persistent silence. It wasn't that Ray was a continual fount of conversation like, say, Kitty, but there was a reason he often adopted the role of spokesperson for the New Mutants. "So, what I'm trying – very inarticulately – to say is this: how much are you willing for people to know?"

Ray was silent, pensive, and the air of the room seemed to charge with tension and static. Charles tapped his fingertips together, waiting. It was true, he didn't want to lie to anybody, but this, in essence, wasn't his secret to tell. The ramifications for Ray were a consideration – one that made any course of action one the boy had to first be privy to.

"Everything, I suppose," he said at last, and with an air of deep resignation. "It's going to come out anyway, as soon as Feral wakes up. And I already spilled a few beans. They'll wanna know more than what I said. If I don't tell them, they'll do something stupid, like try and find out by themselves."

Charles arched an eyebrow, but it was mainly for effect. He hardly even realised he was doing it. "Feral? Is that her name?"

"You're the telepath. Don't you already know?"

"I'm not in the habit of poking around where I'm not wanted, Ray. Your privacy was never in question from the moment you stepped through our doors, and never will be." Charles let out a breath. "I'm sorry you thought otherwise."

The soothing edge to his voice made Ray deflate, and for a second Charles caught a glimpse of the dread and fear in his eyes. Gone was his bravado, replaced by something very different. Ray suddenly looked very young, and Charles' heart twitched as it had done so many times when confronted with a young person in need of help he perhaps couldn't give.

"I know... sorry. It's just... I never thought...ah, fuck it." Ray threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. "Fuck it all."

Charles leaned back, trying not to encroach on any personal space, even though there was a heavy desk and several feet between them. "Who is she? A friend?"

"I... don't know."

"Excuse me?"

"I suppose you could call her an old teammate, except they weren't just a team... so much more than that. She is – was – a Morlock."

"Was?"

His head didn't move, but he stared down his nose, making eye contact for the first time. "I never told you a lot of things," he said slowly, "and some of them I'm still not gonna tell you. On the other hand, there's stuff you've gotta know. That everybody's gotta know." He waved a hand, spiralling it at the wrist like it was too weighty to do anything but dangle. "You already know who and what the Morlocks were."

The use of past tense was noted, but not commented on. Charles simply nodded, affirming the statement.

"One of the most important things was always keeping secret. Nobody could know we were there, or even have an clue about who we were if they did see us. For the most part it was easy because of where we lived. I mean, the sewers ain't exactly a home away from home, are they? Nothing down there but a few drunks and bums. Perfect place for a bunch of freaks to hide out without being noticed."

Charles winced at the phraseology as much as the vehemence behind it. It seemed that Ray's feelings for the Morlocks' situation went a little deeper than even he was willing to admit. "And something compromised this?" He raised his palms to gesture that he hadn't used his telepathy to make the assumption.

"Yeah. Something like that. More specifically, some_one_. Guy named Sevarius. We never worked out how he knew about us. Just turned up one day and demanded to meet with Callisto. Freaked the rest of us out."

"Callisto?"

"Our leader."

"Oh. She - "

"Yeah, she met with him. Apparently he made some demands of the tribe, wanted things she wasn't willing to make us do."

"What sort of things?" Charles kept his voice even, but pored over the name with alarm. Anton Sevarius – if that was the man to whom Ray was referring – was a renowned geneticist, intelligent to the point of true genius, but ruthless and with no qualms about trampling anything and anyone in the pursuit of a goal – including the law. He'd had to good fortune – at least, it had seemed that way at the time – to attend one of Sevarius' lectures during his college years, and knew him to be passionate about his work, if slightly cold and unemotional about the rest of the world. Later on, after he became a lecturer himself, Charles met with him again, and was left with clear memories of a merciless gaze and predatory smile when talking about his favourite topic – genetic mutations.

Ray met Charles's gaze again. "He was some kinda doctor. He wanted - and I quote - 'tissue samples' from a few of us. Even had the donors all picked out, although how he knew is something we never managed to figure out. Guy gave me the creeps right from the beginning. Anyway, Callisto told him to go fuck himself, of course. Their argument got quite bad."

"You sound like you were there."

"I was. That was a fault of mine, sticking my nose where it didn't belong."

The memory of a lash across his bare back for eavesdropping cut through the ether unannounced. Charles's mouth dropped open with a small gasp before he could stop it. Ray looked at him sharply, but Charles schooled his features into a mask of neutrality whilst at the same time bolstering his shields a little more. Private thoughts indeed.

"Sevarius left, but he was majorly pissed off. Cussed us all on the way out. You think I'm bad, you should've heard this guy. Made me look like Doris fucking Day. He told us - and I quote again - 'if he couldn't be privy to the gene pool then he'd find other ways'. Then he just disappeared – _poof!_ We never heard from him again. That was six months before I left, and there was still no mention when I flew the coop."

That didn't sound like the Sevarius that Charles remembered. For a second he let himself hope that he was thinking of somebody else entirely, despite the coincidences. After all, coincidence accounted for a lot in life. Besides which, he was fairly sure Sevarius had mysteriously dropped out of the scientific circuit a few years ago, and never been heard from since – which was amazing, considering the size of the man's professional ego. There had even been rumours of his death, though sources said he'd been spotted several times since then.

He resolved to ask Hank about it. His erstwhile connections with the scientific world might prove useful after all.

"You think this Sevarius character has something to do with your... with Feral coming here?"

Ray laughed humourlessly, letting his head roll forward again. "I think he has a lot more to do with this whole thing than just driving her into Upworld. I think he finally made good on his promise and came back to destroy the Morlocks."

Charles shook his head as the statement sank in. "I think you may be jumping to conclusions - "

"Am I?" Ray's gaze turned hard. "Feral wouldn't leave the sewers, not for anything. She hates Upworld. Something really big had to have happened to send her up here. Plus, she'd never go anywhere without her sister, Thornn. They were always together - _always_. Once, Thornn broke her ankle on a mission and Feral single-handedly fought off a gang of thugs and carried her back to us under her own power. She trekked three miles through sewage, Professor. _Three miles_." He blinked slowly, as if he'd said something of great meaning.

Charles still wasn't convinced. Sevarius was ruthless, yes, but a cold-blooded murderer? The concept was just too fantastic.

"How do you know it's this Sevarius?"

"Nobody else had a grudge against the Morlocks. We stayed clear of everyone to keep from making enemies. Got enough fucking problems without creating more."

"But you've been gone almost a year. Things might've changed since then."

"Don't work that way. Believe me."

"All right then. How do you know Feral was telling the truth outside? From what I sensed of her mind, she was confused and disorientated, and she fainted not long after speaking to you. You may be misinterpreting something she said to mean more than it does."

"She said the Morlocks were dead. You can't mistake something like that, Professor. She found me out after all this time, specially. As far as the Morlocks went, _I_ was the one who was dead. Lost on a mission. She must've really been grabbing at straws to go look for _me_. It's _gotta_ be Sevarius. Nobody else would be _stupid_ enough to take them on. He said he had the power to do it, but we never took him seriously. After all, he was only a human..."

"Do you really think that's what happened?"

"What else could it be?" Ray sighed, rubbing at the sore spot between his eyes and pinching the flesh nervously. "Look, I didn't come up here to debate what happened to my old... to the Morlocks. You said you wanted to know how much you could tell the others to explain about Feral being here, right?"

"Indeed."

"Well, you don't gotta worry about it. I'll tell 'em."

Charles' brows pulled together. "Are you sure that's wise? I won't beat around the bush, Ray. You've been keeping secrets from them for a long time. They probably won't be too happy that you didn't trust them enough to tell them until you were forced into it."

"I know. That's why I gotta be the one to tell 'em. It'll sound better coming from me. Besides, like I said, I never told you everything, and I don't want you saying stuff that they could give them any wrong ideas."

Charles puckered his brow. "Er, quite. Well, if you think it's best - "

Another dour burst of laughter. "Professor, it ain't about what I think is best, it's about what's gotta be done. If Feral's come here, then she's probably come for help. Y'know, um... what's the word? Um..." He scratched the back of his head, frowning in thought.

"Sanctuary?"

"Yeah... I suppose. Sounds a bit like The Hunchback of Notre Dame, but you get the general idea. The others need to know where she's from and what she's been through so they don't treat her the wrong way. She's got a bit of a temper – always has done."

"I think Logan found that out, much to his own cost."

Ray looked suddenly embarrassed, and went back to picking at the armrest, staring studiously at nothing.

Charles rested his elbows on the desk. "It sounds almost like you're trying to protect her."

That startled him. He blinked, as if thinking about the possibility for the first time. "Maybe I am," he said after a moment, strangely contemplative. More contemplative than was normal for him, at any rate, and Charles instantly chastised himself for such an unkind thought. Ray was sometimes rather introverted, true, but no more than Rogue, Kurt or any of the other students could be when they chose to.

Ray shook himself. "Anyway, that's beside the point. What matters is how much the others get to hear. And I'll tell you now, Professor, they can't know the location of the tunnels where you and Logan found me, got it? I don't care how much you trust them and say they're all good at heart," a slight sneer crept into his voice, and Charles felt his feathers ruffling a little, "that information's off limits. I'm not running the risk of having anyone go exploring down there – and don't say they won't, 'cause they will, given half a chance. If Feral's here, then there may be other survivors, and that's where they'll go for _their_ sanctuary. So we leave it alone, okay?"

The steel in his tone made Charles feel even more tired than he'd felt before, and in no condition to be arguing such a petty point. Looking at the boy's equally hard eyes, it was doubtful he'd win even if he entertained the idea.

He'd said he'd abide by Ray's decision, and here it was. Now was the time for him to follow through on his promise. "All right, if you feel that's best - "

"Damn straight, I do."

"– Then I'll do as you say." He linked his fingers, peering through the lattices. He closed his eyes briefly, scanning the Institute to 'see' who was still awake. It was both a relief and a disappointment to find that they all were – most of them excited, and all bubbling over with questions. "The other students aren't yet asleep, so I could gather them together if you'd like? Usually I wouldn't condone such behaviour on a school night, but I think I can make an exception in these extenuating circumstances. Unless you'd rather wait until morning?"

"Nu-uh. I'd rather just get it outta the way while I still can." He was going to tear of the entire side of the armrest if he kept clawing at that way. He stopped abruptly, scrubbing at his hair. It stuck out at even more angles than usual, which was doubly odd after his drenching in the rain. "Shit... I don't wanna do this at all..."

"My offer's still open if you want me to tell them."

His answer was quick. "No. No, it's better this way. Not the easier route, but the better one. Crap on a raft – why is the better way always so damn difficult?"

Charles tried a comforting smile, but it came out watery. He'd pondered that self-same question over a hundred times and never come up with an answer. "Just another mystery of the world, I'm afraid."

"Well that's fucking comforting."

* * *

* * *

The Rec. Room bustled, the air alive with a hum of activity and far too much noise for just-past-midnight. Voices whispered, never rising above the respective murmur the witching hour demands, but never truly dying away either. It was so unusual to be called out of bed to an unprecedented meeting that it warranted a little comment.

Well, okay, more than a little. They were teenagers after all.

The hum increased when Kitty, Jean and Scott hobbled in – the latter with the aid of a pair of crutches and both of the former with sizeable ice packs grafted to their skulls. They smelled of antiseptic and cleanliness, and had the other students not already known where they'd been, the percale pyjamas and distinguishing smell of the Infirmary were clues enough.

The trio were hit by a barrage of questions the moment they stepped through the door. They answered as many as they could while trying to make their way to a few seats. Yes, Logan had been in a fight. No, it hadn't been Sabertooth as they'd suspected. No, they didn't truly know _who_ his opponent had been, but yes, she was downstairs in the med-lab along with Beast, who wouldn't be attending the meeting but would no doubt get full details from the Professor later. Yes, they'd appreciate it if Bobby and Kurt gave up the couch, and _no_, Scott didn't trip over his own feet to get the crutches.

The last comment was greeted by a smattering of giggles. All laughter abruptly snapped off as if someone had thrown the switch on an anti-humour device when Logan stalked in. He shot each and every one of them his patented evil eye, the effect of which was exacerbated by the fact that one of his own lids was still shut and covered by a strip of grey gauze. He was not a happy bunny. Roberto scurried away from the fireplace to let him stand there.

The silence was constant until finally, a few minutes later, the familiar drone of the Professor's wheelchair could be heard whirring down the corridor. All eyes turned to the door, and when he rolled in with Ray by his side there were more than a few raised eyebrows.

Ray kept his gaze glued to the floor, and didn't look at anyone as the Professor stopped and visually scanned the room to make sure everyone was present. Scott, Jean and Kitty exchanged glances, but said nothing. Nor did they venture to look at Logan, though Kitty swore blind afterwards that she could hear him growling.

"Is everyone here?" Xavier asked needlessly.

"_Yes_, already," said Amara with a yawn her hand barely covered. Evidently the excitement hadn't been enough to entirely stave off her need for sleep. "Can we get on with this? I need my beauty rest."

"With a face like that, I can believe it," Jubilee sniped from the across the room.

She squealed as Amara indulged in some very un-princessly behaviour and hurled a cushion at her head. She threw one back, of course, but a well-placed rumble from Logan dispelled any chance of a full-scale pillow-war before it could start. The two girls fell to glaring instead.

Xavier nodded, and continued in a controlled voice. "Students, I'll be brief. You're all already aware that tonight we had a rather strange and unannounced visitor in the grounds. I know enough about the gossip machine within these walls not to need my telepathy for that. Basically, Logan engaged the intruder in combat, and after much to-do she's now unconscious and recovering from their skirmish in the Infirmary, in the very competent care of Beast."

On the couch Kitty harrumphed, slightly miffed that their part in the incident had been omitted. However, she refrained from further comment as the Professor went on, introducing Ray to the floor and wheeling away to sit next to Logan. She leaned forward, instantly enrapt. Now maybe they'd get some proper answers. Having done her fair share of 'engaging' outside, she was anxious to find out more about her odd opponent. That, and Ray's strange behaviour had made her feel more than a little worried.

Kitty was a caring soul – probably one of the _most _caring souls anybody was ever likely to meet in any lifetime. Kurt had often remarked that she didn't have a malicious bone in her body, and that was high praise coming from the boy she'd avoided like the plague for the first few months after meeting him, then reduced practically to a coma on their very first mission together. Next to Jean, she was one of the most approachable members of the X-Men, and the most popular.

Except with Ray.

When the new recruits first came to the mansion, Ray had been as prickly as a cactus and twice as sharp, shunning everybody and greeting all conversation with a bad word. The Professor had told them he was probably just taking a little time to get acclimatised, and the few short conversations and cryptic comments he exchanged along the way had made others think the same thing.

Eventually, however, they'd realised that his antisocial behaviour was typical, and that he always acted that way, which had made him not so much unpopular amongst his peers as intimidating to them. Sure, he did what he was told, and he always held his own in Danger Room sims. In that respect he was probably the most dependable of the beta squad. Yet outside the DR he never sought the company of others, and though he participated in various pursuits it was always with a surly word and a scowl.

Kitty still remembered trying to mollify him that first day, when she accidentally phased into his new (and her old) bedroom, and then again later that evening when she ran into him in the hall. She'd succeeded neither time, and never quite managed after that either. Ray's general demeanour had been enough to stretch even her famous patience and goodwill to breaking point.

She supposed that, combined with her anxiety over Mr. Logan, that had been the reason behind her animosity towards him in the hall earlier. Truth be told, she was a little ashamed of her outburst. It had hurt for Scott and Jean to have to mediate between them like they were a pair of squalling children. Kitty didn't hate Ray, as some professed to – read: Roberto. Rather, she found him and his arms-length attitude very tiresome, and the whole tough-guy act left her cold after Lance.

That didn't stop her worrying about him, though. He was, she reasoned, still her teammate. And if there was one thing she'd learned as an X-Man, it was that you looked after your own. After all, if they didn't worry about each other, nobody else was going to.

So it was with a partial desire to make amends that Kitty sat and watched Ray scuff his foot on the carpet and clear his throat like he had a multitude of frogs in it.

_He's nervous_, she thought, astonished he was even capable of the emotion. Ray was brash, confident, and knew what he was about. He did not get nervous. It weirded her out to see an actual human being underneath all that bluster and cussing. _Well, why not? _she remonstrated herself. _After all, Lance isn't a complete thug, is he? Why should it be different for anybody else?_

"Ray?" the Professor said in his tried-and-tested fatherly voice.

Ray sighed and raised his eyes, not looking at anyone, but at the same time looking at them all. "Her name's Feral," he said simply, words fast and clipped, "although some of you already know that. She comes from a tribe of mutants called the Morlocks. You might ask yourselves, 'what the hell are the Morlocks'? Well, the Morlocks are probably where Fuzzy would be right now if he wasn't here with us."

Kurt blinked in surprise. "Was?"

The Professor winced.

"Morlocks are mutants whose physical mutations make it impossible for them to live normal lives," Ray explained. "They don't got no fancy holowatches or nothing to help 'em, so the only thing they can do is hide away and hope nobody ever sees 'em and... y'know." He gestured flaccidly, starched fabric of his pyjamas exceptionally noisy in the ensuing quiet.

Kitty was shocked, as was everyone. Nobody mentioned Kurt's physical mutations unless they were joking around or really trying to hurt him. _Nobody. _She knew, since for a long time she'd used the word 'demon' as the ultimate insult to win an argument, until finally realising how much damage she was doing.

Ray wasn't joking.

She cast a glance Kurt's way. Sure enough, he sat tight as a coiled spring, tail in his lap but twitching at a faster pace than before. She couldn't tell if he was angry or upset, and for a second she just wanted to go over and slap Ray for bringing something so sensitive up without warning like that.

However, Ray surprised them all for the second time by adding, "I didn't mean anything bad by that, Kurt. It's the same for Mr. McCoy, too. And that Angel guy in New York. Physical mutations that are hard to miss, y'know?"

Kurt relaxed a little, but Kitty saw that his tail still twitched a lot. "I know," he said, eternally forgiving. It was one of his best and worst traits. "I also know what can happen if the wrong sort of 'norms' see mutants like us." He shivered, and next to him Rahne touched his arm in a comforting, strangely understanding gesture.

Ray cleared his throat again, and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, like I said, the Morlocks hide away so that sort of stuff won't happen. They all live in a place nobody'd ever think to look for 'em. A safe place. They, um..." He coughed. His throat must've felt like sandpaper from number of times he'd cleared it. "They live in the sewers."

There was a beat. Then: "Eeeeew!" Amara stuck out her tongue. "How utterly disgusting, living amongst waste and filth like that. Couldn't they just move to the countryside or something, where people couldn't see them?"

Ray's cheeks flushed. His gaze dropped back to the carpet he was toeing.

Kitty flipped between him and the princess, taking in both of their reactions. Amara tossed her slinky hair, looking for all the world like a model from a L'Oreal commercial despite the rest of her bed-rumpled appearance. By comparison, Ray was windswept, his orange spikes sagging into his eyes, and he tugged uncomfortably at the sleeve of his borrowed pyjamas. He looked, she thought, like he would rather be anywhere but there, and she felt an unfamiliar surge of pity towards him. This was something big for him to say. The fact that he had broken the Kurt-taboo spoke for itself.

It was that same pity that made her turn around and snap, "Shut up, Amara. Let him talk," and then ignore the other girl's astonished expression. Kitty didn't snap, or snarl, or growl. For her to act that way was about as unusual as it was for Ray to say anything without adding in half a dozen cusses and grunts for good measure - neither of which he'd done thus far.

He looked up, shocked, and Kitty nodded at him to continue, pointedly disregarding Amara's rumbling outrage. Amara, Kitty knew from experience, was wont to flare up in temper as well as power, even if the reason was so petty it didn't bear thinking about.

"Uh, thanks. I think."

Jamie shifted where he was sitting on the floor. "Poor things," he said in a small voice, achingly sympathetic. "Is that why Feral came here? Because she didn't like living in the sewers anymore?"

Ray sighed and shook his head, swapping a look with Xavier before briefly outlining what he thought had happened to drive Feral to the surface. His words were greeted by a horde of aghast muttering. When he'd finished Kitty found herself staring openly.

That anybody could be so cold was a concept she'd thought relegated only to bad science fiction and melodrama. It took several seconds for the idea to sink in that people could be murdered en masse like that, simply because of the make-up of their blood.

Scott asked in his best leader voice whether Ray could be mistaken in his speculation – after all, that was all it was. He had no real proof of this Sevarius' involvement. Yet Ray was adamant, and wouldn't even entertain the idea that it could be anything else.

"There's two things I don't believe in, man; coincidence and unicorns."

Finally Logan broke in, speaking for the first time since his arrival and cowing them into respectful silence. "You sure you ain't got the wrong end of the stick, kid?"

"Positive."

"Then why didn't this 'Feral' just ask us for help? Why'd she sneak in, and then make an attack before she knew whether we were friendly or not? For that matter," he narrowed his eyes – or, more appropriately, eye - "how'd she get past the security systems in the first place? You got answers to that, too?"

"Feral's not dumb, no matter how much she looks like an animal. I can't tell you exactly how she got in, but believe me, if a Morlock wants into a place, you can bet your ass and vital organs they'll find a way in."

"I almost did." Logan flexed his fingers, not-quite-brandishing the lumps that hid his claws as emphasis. It was an idle thing to say, given his mutation and fighting prowess, but it sent shivers up and down Kitty's spine nonetheless.

"Um, Ray?" Sam's tentative voice broke in, and a blush rose to his cheeks as all eyes turned on him. Kitty attempted a comforting look, but it was lost amidst the curious gazes, and for a moment she felt sorry for him. Sam wasn't a fan of getting too much attention, since he claimed it made him screw up and accentuated his clumsiness. Rahne and Jubilee were forever reassuring him, but the fact that he had yet to properly grow into his gawky body was a constant sticking point - one that Ray and Roberto had both been known to pick on him about in the past.

Still, since he was sitting squidged between Rahne and Jubilee, there wasn't much chance of it coming to the fore now. "You seem to know a lot about these, uh, 'Morlocks'."

It wasn't said accusingly, but Ray's response was snappish enough that it might as well have been. "Yeah? What of it?"

Sam flustered. "Uh, what I mean to say is, uh... uh..." He floundered, looking around for help. It wasn't difficult to locate, since the question he was trying to ask was one that had been stewing in each of their brains. Certainly, Kitty had thought of it, but it'd seemed prudent to hold her tongue until he was finished. Now, however, she leaned forward in her seat, shifting her ice pack to see better.

Oddly, it was Rogue who took over. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "I think what Sam's tryin' to ask is, how come you know so much about these Morlocks if they're so secretive an' junk?"

Ray's face froze, emotion draining from it until it was as neutral as neutral could be. He stared at the floor with the air of one facing imminent doom; and Kitty realised the startling truth mere moments before he confirmed it.

"I know because I used to be one of them."

The statement was met with silence, which was surprising in itself. Complete and utter silence. No muted whispers made the rounds, no hasty muttering. Only quiet as everyone absorbed the meaning behind that one little admittance. Someone coughed, but it made no difference. Something intangible crackled in the air around them – an electric current of understanding.

"Why?" Kitty asked, when it became apparent that nobody else was going to. _Might as well bite the bullet_. "You're not - " she stopped herself. She'd almost said 'deformed'! "You don't look different."

Ray's gaze stayed rooted where it was. He clasped his hands behind his back. "When my powers first kicked in, I nearly levelled my school gym. I got scared and bolted. Ran away. They took me in – made me one of them when I had nowhere else to go. I stayed there over six months. Callisto, their leader, even gave me a new name to welcome into her tribe. Berzerker. They taught me how to fight, how to steal, how to survive on the streets with nobody catching you. They're the reason I survived."

"So why'd you leave?"

"I wasn't a very good student. Kept going off on my own, not following orders the way I should've." He sighed. It seemed to come right from his toes. "You have to understand that the tunnels were our home, and we protected that home, just like the X-Men do the mansion.

"I got sent on a reconnaissance mission to scope out some band of thugs who'd moved in a little too close for comfort. They were a weird bunch – shifty. Callisto worried they might be drug pushers or something, so she sent a bunch of us to check it out. We didn't want too many people poking around down there, for obvious reasons.

"But I was dumb, as always. The others told me not to, but I thought I knew better. I took too many risks – got too close trying to figure out what they were up to. They spotted me. Gave me a few scars to remember them by, and chased me almost right outta the tunnels into Upworld. Too many to fight alone, and the others already said they were going back. I didn't listen to them. Let them go. Thought I could handle it on my own. Chuh, what did I know? I'd nearly bought the big one by the time they were done. Lucky for me, Logan and the Professor turned up to pull my fat outta the fire." He inclined his head.

Logan nodded, validating the story.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Kitty asked softly. "Did you think we'd treat you any different, knowing where you'd come from?"

"I... yeah. Yeah, I suppose I did." Ray looked embarrassed. "Plus, there was the whole vow of secrecy thing that every Morlock keeps."

"So you're saying you didn't trust us?"

"It wasn't a case of whether I trusted you or not. I took the oath, and the Morlocks were my tribe, so I couldn't break it without feeling... y'know, like I'd let them down or something."

Rogue sat up, recapturing his attention. "If you felt so strongly about 'em, why'd you leave? I'm assumin' Professor Xavier offered you a place here at the Institute. So why'd you take it if the Morlocks were your 'tribe'? Why didn't you go back once you'd been rescued?"

Ray looked at her, and only at her, and Kitty saw the unflappable Goth actually squirm under the intensity of his gaze. "Because I'm banished," he deadpanned. "The second I took up the Professor's offer, I could never go back. That's another law of the tunnels. To the Morlocks, I'm dead. Less than dead. I never existed." He gave a mirthless laugh at the irony of it all.

"God," Rogue whispered, obviously shocked. "But if you knew that'd happen, why'd you join us? Why'd you give it all up?"

"Because..." Ray trailed off, and tilted his head back to stare contemplatively at the ceiling. This was clearly something he'd thought about more than once, and from the looks of things, he'd never come up with a real answer before. "I don't exactly know why I did it. I could claim momentary insanity, but... but it was something I wanted to do. Didn't the rest of you feel that way when you got the chance of a life with people who understood what you were going through? Who knew what it was like to have these sorts of abilities, and didn't care that you were different?"

Kitty had to admit that she did, and a look around the room confirmed that others felt the same way.

"There was another reason, too," Ray said in a low voice, a half-whisper that sounded like he was hoping nobody would hear and force him to go on with. Kitty got the impression from his drooping posture that this was difficult for him. "I'm not proud of it either."

_Your intuition's getting better, Pryde_. "You don't have to tell us if you don't want to," she started, but he held up a hand to make her stop and went on with something akin to finality in his tone.

"I... I never really felt comfortable being a Morlock. I guess I was kinda... ashamed to be one. There, I said it. They were the closest thing I ever got to a real family, and I like _them_, but I hated what being one of them meant. I hated having to hide out in Upworlder garbage just because of the way I was born, and I hated having to skulk in shadows like I wasn't a real person anymore. I... I guess you could say I just wanted to be normal again. The Institute gave me a shot at that. I could be a mutant, but still move back to Upworld. I... I missed the sun down there, and when I got so close after the fight, I just didn't wanna turn back. I was selfish. I didn't think about the others, I just thought about myself, and by the time I realised that, it was too late." He stopped, breathing quicker than before. A look of intense amazement etched his face.

It seemed there were a few things Ray had got off his chest that not even _he_ had known until they were out.

"Jesus H – I never... I didn't... holy crap on a raft, what've I said?" he mumbled, clapping a hand over his mouth, as if he could stuff the admission back in that way.

"You said what you feel," the Professor said smoothly, wheeling forward and interposing himself between Ray and the rest of the student body.

"But I never... aw, shit."

"You should never hide what you feel, Ray. If you do, it just bottles up and vents itself in other ways, or else stunts your ability to show feelings at all."

"Emotional constipation, right?"

Xavier flinched. "Not the phrasing I would've used, but yes." He turned to the rest of them. "Feral came here looking for sanctuary. We believe she tracked Ray to the mansion, and that's why she broke in. Her condition is still uncertain, both physically and mentally," he touched the side of his head, "and if she truly has been through what Ray believes, then I'd appreciate it if you'd all be patient until we can properly discern what's to be done. Is that understood?"

There was a chorus of 'yes Professor,' and he bobbed his head, glancing at his watch. "It's very late, and you all have school in the morning. I think it would be best if you all returned to your rooms now."

"Uh, Professor?" Scott interrupted, eliciting a curious gaze from his mentor and guardian. "Can I just say something?"

"Of course, Scott."

"Uh, to Ray?"

Dutifully, Xavier moved aside. Ray stood centre stage once more.

Scott stood, helped by both Jean and Kitty, and wobbled on his crutches to stare levelly at the other boy. Years of getting his butt whupped by Logan et al had long since taught him how to use such walking aids, but it had been several years since the last time the need arose. He was obviously a little out of practise.

"Ray, I don't know about anybody else, and I don't meant to go all lecture-mode on you, but it's a little disappointing that you thought you couldn't share your past with the rest of us. Granted, the oath you took made it difficult, but we're your teammates, and I always thought that counted for something. I always hoped it meant as much to everybody else as it does to me."

Ray tried to say something, but Scott stopped him.

"Just let me finish, okay? Like I said, we're your teammates. Now, you might not like us, and some of the time we don't particularly care for you, either. But the bare fact is that, whatever happens, we'll always be there for each other – and that includes you. Whatever problems you have, whatever mistakes you've made – or _think_ you've made – we'll be there to listen and help you if we can. If you ever... look, if you need to talk about all this junk, then I'm sure any of us would be happy to listen. We won't judge, because whatever you were before, and whatever you've lost, you're an X-Man now, and you're one of us." He sighed. "Okay, fearless leader speech over. You can all stop rolling your eyes now."

"Thanks," Ray said gruffly, and anybody could see that he meant it.

Around the room, heads nodded and agreements were voiced. Kitty felt the same warm glow she'd always felt whenever the X-men pulled together as a team. It didn't matter if they were in the midst of a battle, saving each other's behinds, or just lending a friendly ear; the glow remained. She smiled, happy to be a part of it even if it had to come in the midst of sorrow.

Ray didn't smile, but there was something in his eyes that said he appreciated the gesture. Then he clapped Scott on the back, driving the wind from his lungs. "Now fuck off back to bed before you fall over and twist your other ankle, Twinkle-Toes."

* * *

* * *

Hank sighed and muttered to himself, then swivelled his chair away from the computer terminal and took off his glasses. For some reason they seemed to be pinching too much at the spot between his eyes. He gazed blearily at the clock, realising that it wasn't so much the spectacles as his own tiredness catching up with him.

The Morlock – Feral – was still unconscious. The IV line was still attached to her arm, the bag nearly empty, he noted. He sensed, more than knew, that her sleep was a dreamless one. Which was probably best if what Charles had told him was true. Come to think of it, that telepathic conversation was probably the reason his head ached so. Hank yawned openly, not bothering to cover his mouth.

He lumbered off his chair and made towards the makeshift bed he'd had Logan bring down specially as soon as he learned that fixing up the X-Men sometimes meant all-night vigils. He paused to rummage as quietly as he could for another nutrient-rich bag to replace the old one with. Fortunately for him, the Institute had an excellent med-lab, but somehow it was always rather depressing when he had to use its contents.

Switching the clear plastic pouches took no more than a few minutes, in spite of his cumbersomely thick fingers. He was a little wary his claws would accidentally split one of them, but all went off without a hitch, and the empty bag was soon in the trash where it belonged.

Then he stopped for a second, examining his fingers in the cold, clinical striplighting. He sighed. When he first mutated, the claws had taken some getting used to, and even now he sometimes had problems not shredding or snapping any stationary he tried to use. It made writing sick notes for the students a little difficult. Of course, the power he'd been imbued with, the complete raw strength was always a plus – especially when it was his turn to run training sessions. Yet sometimes he missed being able to perform more intricate pursuits, like just plain reading a book without slicing the pages out.

_Look at me, feeling sorry for myself, _he chastised himself, shaking his head as he shucked his labcoat and clambered into bed.

He left the lights on, and spent several minutes watching the gently bleeping nodes on the machinery surrounding his newest charge. He'd asked Charles a few questions about her, some of which neither of them couldn't answer. Would she stay once she awoke? Would they allow her to? Charles had told him that the Institute's doors were always open to any mutant who wanted to come here, but whether she'd actually consent to remain amongst them was another matter entirely. From what Ray had told them, Morlocks were generally no lovers of 'Upworld', as they called it, and though he had given up his life underground for a place in the sun, Feral was another kettle of fish entirely.

It was always sad when a mutant didn't want to join the X-Men. Hank hadn't been present for the almost-introductions of many of the Brotherhood, nor their ally Forge. Yet he'd been around for when Angel turned down their offer, then again when Lance Alvers tried and declined. Tabitha Smith he'd met only briefly when he was still a teacher at Bayville High, but it was depressing nonetheless to learn that she had once been a member of their team. Were they really such dreamers that others thought them incapable of making their flights of fancy come true?

_Is Charles hanging onto a myth?_

He was still pondering these overtiredness-induced quandaries when the Infirmary door slid open. Hank, already propping his head up with an arm, watched with interest as a figure pattered through the doorway with blankets and a pillow. The figure glanced this way and that, eyes eventually resting on him. On impulse he feigned sleep. Easy enough, considering he was already half-lidded and droopy.

There was the sound of blankets being dropped on the floor and then rearranged. The pillow did likewise with a vague 'floomph'. Skin of bare feet stuck as the figure moved, then stopped, and for a second silence reigned.

Hank chanced a peek.

Ray stood, staring down at the tiny figure wreathed in yellow fur. He wore an odd expression. Hank had never seen him look so pensive, and watched with interest as the boy slowly reached out to rest a hand on Feral's shoulder and stroked her bedraggled fur. It was patchy, he knew, and his sensitive hearing picked up on the sound of his fingers brushing over callused skin where it had fallen out or been rubbed away into scabs and sores. In god condition Feral wouldn't win any beauty prizes, but her bedraggled state was doubly pitiful.

_Difficult to believe she gave Logan such a run for his money, _Hank reflected. _To look at her, one wouldn't know she was anything less than fragile._

His ears twitched as Ray whispered something, then turned and bedded surreptitiously down on the floor.

Hank had come into contact with grief before, his own and that of others, so he didn't move or venture to remonstrate the boy for sneaking down here like a thief. Ray had lost a lot. He could allow at least one night under the circumstances.

There was much tossing and turning, since the tiles weren't exactly the most comfortable of places, but eventually Ray lay still – though it was quite some time before his breathing fell into the signature that defined sleep.

Hank blinked, repeating the few words he'd heard the boy say. _Second chance? _Then he shrugged and let his arm drop, head hitting his own pillow with a satisfaction only the truly weary can appreciate.

Well, at least one person wanted her to stay. Maybe that would be enough.

* * *

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_

* * *

**_

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_**

_**Review Responses:**_

Me (Harry Wriggle) - Well, I don't think I'm quite up to Tergon's standard, but I try. Are you perhaps thinking of InterNutter's fic _An Ingenious Paradox? _Because i did read that, but it isn't where this came from. This LoganChuckBackstory is cobbled together from several different sources, both official and fanon, and if 'Nutter's stuff played any sort of role, then it was through _First Days _rather than AIP. Storm was upstairs herding the other kids into bed, as were Hank and the Professor. I work on the theory that Ororo is painfully aware of Butterfly Effect, or something along those lines, so she doesn't like to change large stretches of weather for long periods if she can possibly help it. Although the Johnny Depp idea has merit... Kitty-Logan is probably me channeling Nemain. And I think she was chaneling comicverse, so we're all chennlling Chris Claremont. O.o Scary thought.

"The Price is Right" Fan - Hope this lived up to your expectations, babs.

Angel of the Fallen Stars - Well, he dun' it. Now time for the fallout. :)

FrckinEvilPoptart - Stares Say _what_?!


	8. Daybreak

* * *

* * *

Chapter Eight – _Daybreak_

* * *

* * *

"Wakey wakey, sleepy-head."

Ray groaned and turned over, pulling his pillow over his face. The far-too-cheerful voice giggled. Something poked his exposed shoulder.

"Go 'way."

"At least he's awake," said another, slightly huskier voice. It was still feminine, and for a second he didn't recognise it. That is, until his protective pillow was ripped away and the owner grinned down at him like an early-morning gargoyle.

"Fuckit! Gimmie!" He clawed to reclaim the pillow, blinking blearily at the bright lights and wondering where the hell he was. "Jubes!"

"I just love the sound of expletives in the morning," Jubilee sniggered, dancing out of his grasp. She was dressed, washed, and chipper enough to let him know that she wasn't going to give up until he was fully awake doing the same. Ray groaned, and would've flopped backwards had it not involved smashing his head on the floor tiles.

"Well I don't," said the first voice, which materialised into Rahne. She poked his shoulder again. "Wash your mouth out with soap, young man. It's far too early for that kinna' language." She was smiling as she said it, and again when she gripped the edge of his blankets and yanked them back, exposing him to the cold, cold world of early morning in the Infirmary.

"Shit-meister!" Ray cried, loosing several more curses as he curled into a foetal position to retain heat. Then he stopped.

The Infirmary?

Memories of the previous night came crashing in like a wave, swirling around his befuddled thoughts as a mental riptide. He gave a fresh groan at the thought of what he'd done – what he'd _said_. He'd betrayed the Morlocks' trust, told all but their most guarded of secrets. Yet it hardly mattered anymore, since disaster had overtaken them long before his grossly flapping mouth could.

Grief washed over his heart, brief but biting, and his chest tightened. He scrubbed the back of his head at the strangeness of the emotion. He'd never come into contact with death beyond watching a hearse trawl down the street. It was an odd feeling. Especially since he still wasn't entirely sure who he was supposed to be mourning and whom not.

_Wait a sec_... His brain made several connections, culminating in him sitting bolt upright with a cry. "Feral?"

"Right next to you," Beast told him as he emerged from the back room, clipboard in one hand and a piece of half-munched toast in the other. His spectacles sat rakishly on top of his head.

The empty plate in Rahne's hand explained what the two girls had been doing down in the med-lab instead of on their way to school. Obviously, torturing him was just an optional extra. Faboo.

Ray scrambled to his feet. Yes, Feral was indeed still in the bed next to him, and he regretted the hasty action as several vertebrae clicked and cracked back into place.

Rahne pursed her lips. "Ouch. That didn't sound good."

"What didn't?" Jubilee blinked.

Rahne pointed with the plate, sending a few superfluous crumbs flying. As she waggled it back and forth it tumbled from her grasp, dislodging the remaining breadcrumbs and scattering them all over the floor Ray had so recently vacated. "His back – oops."

"You can hear that?"

"Of course. Wolf hearing, remember?" She bent down, trying to scoop the mess back onto the plate and failing abysmally as they skittered off in all directions. "Bugger, I'm all staticky. Here, little crumbs. Come to Rahne."

Jubilee laughed, high and flutey. "Run little crumbs, run while you still can! Fly free!"

"Stoppit! You're giving them ideas."

Their easy banter flowed back and forth, and Ray regarded the two of them for a moment in surprise. They were acting so... normal. Like he hadn't just last night admitted to being a sewer-dwelling hobo, and didn't know a mutant who had broken into the mansion and tried to gut some of their teammates under cover of darkness.

As fresh recollections of his midnight tête-à-tête filtered through the ether, he wondered what the heck they were playing at. Jubilee usually enjoyed taunting him, and he'd given her plenty of fresh fodder. Enough to last the rest of the school year, at least. He'd been expecting... _some_ kind of a reaction, not them acting like nothing had happened.

Had Feral not been lying, bold as brass on the bed before him, he might've ventured at the whole incident as just a dream.

Ever tactful, and still grumpy from an uncomfortable night, he put the question to them. "What the hell are you two doing?"

"Bringing Mr. McCoy his breakfast, of course." Jubilee smiled sweetly, but her eyes danced.

"Not that – _that_." Ray spread his palms wide.

Rahne leaned over to her friend, whispering theatrically behind her hand. "Methinks all the fumes in here got to him." The hand dropped, and when she smiled it was a genuine one. "We thought you could use a wake-up call, what with it already being quarter to eight and all, and you not having an alarm clock down here." She inclined her head at Feral, whose eyes were still firmly closed, and whose breathing hadn't changed a jot from the deep, steady breaths of the night before. "How is she?"

"Uh," Ray replied, realising he didn't have an answer. So instead he opted for his usual response. "Why do you care?"

Jubilee cuffed him around the ear. "Why shouldn't we care? Sounds like the poor thing's gone through enough already for us not to add bad feeling on top of that. You should stop being so mistrustful all the time. Takes years off your life and puts lines on your face. In fact," she jabbed a finger at his forehead, "I think I see a few new ones right there. You're gonna look like an old man soon."

Reflexively, Ray touched the spot, and then scowled at her. "Ha-freakin'-ha, Miss Comedian." Yet there was little power behind the words. Truth be told, though tiny, their display was a relief - as well as serving to heap yet more guilt upon him that he hadn't trusted the X-Men enough with his secrets. _Couldn't be helped. Had to keep the oath. Yeah, the oath... _

Rahne frowned. "I don't like that look. Cheer up." She squeezed his arm. He looked down at her hand, then up into her face. There was something in her eyes – something besides the friendliness she always seemed to exude.

Pity.

Ray's chest tightened again, though for quite a different reason. He shook her off. Pity was something he didn't need. Never had done, never would. His expression slammed shut. He regarded the two girls coolly, and Rahne took a step back.

_Almost slipped, there_, he thought, remonstrating himself. _They may talk big, but they still don't understand. Nobody can around this place. Not with their cushy lives and soft pasts. Pity ain't what I'm after. No_. A small blossom of something akin to resentment stirred in his gut, but it fluttered away again as a large, furry hand grasped his shoulder.

"As fetching as those pyjamas are, I doubt your teachers would appreciate you turning up to class in them." Beast popped the last bit of burnt bread into his mouth and swallowed with barely a chew. "Chop chop, or you'll be late."

"What? But I thought - " Ray glanced at the bed. "Can't I stay here? She ain't woken up yet."

"Actually, I think she did sometime during the night." Hank plucked at a readout and studied it for a moment, frowning. Then he looked up, casting his gaze about in such a manner as made Jubilee giggle.

"Mr. McCoy?"

"Yes?"

"They're on your head."

"Excuse me?" Beast patted his hair, then jolted forward to catch his spectacles as they slid from their perch. "Ah, so they are. Thank you, Jubilation."

She pulled a face at his use of her full name, but Rahne touched her arm and told her to leave the matter with a shake of her head. Jubilee gave her a hard look, then sighed and dropped her arms from where they'd been folded across her chest.

Ray watched them from the corner of one eye, wondering what it would be like to have a friendship where you could have an entire conversation without saying a word. Then he shook his head again. _Twice in one morning? You're getting soft. _"She woke up?" he asked, banishing all thoughts but the ones directly responsible for speech.

"Mmm-hmm." Beast nodded, not fully concentrating as his eyes scanned the lines of numbers, dots and squiggles that meant nothing to anybody else in the room. "It seems your presence here calmed her a little, though there was some disturbance." He pointed to a graph, and a large spike that signalled increased brain activity. It tapered off into a wide curve, then became a smooth-ish line tracking the reams of paper.

"So she's just asleep?" Ray's voice dropped instinctively.

"Well, I had to give her a little sedative just now, but essentially, yes."

"Sedative?" His voice rose again, sharp and slightly accusing.

Beast raised a hand. "Nothing too major, and nothing that would harm her biological system, either. I took the liberty of running a few tests while you both slumbered to get the dosage right."

"But why put her back under again? Isn't it a good thing she woke up in the first place?"

"Yes and no." Beast carefully tore off the stack of printouts and folded the uppermost sheet to write the time on the back. "Some of her injuries have become a little infected, and the procedure of cleaning them up might be painful. Given the circumstances, I'd rather her first impressions of me weren't pain and indignity, thank you very much."

Ray grunted, seeing the sense behind the words but still not liking them one iota. "I wanna stay with her."

"I really do think it would be better if you went to school," Beast said patiently, demonstrating the skills he'd learned as a teacher dealing with hundreds of petulant pupils. "There's very little you can do here, Mr. Crisp."

"I can..." Ray started, and then trailed off, looking for something to say in his defence. "I can... be here. For her."

"After school," Beast said firmly. "Quite honestly, I'll be treating Miss, uh... Feral most of the time between now and then, so there would be little to keep you interested around the Institute today. Besides which, a little bird tells me your academia wouldn't benefit from any undue absences."

Ray scowled, and though he didn't know it, over his head both Rahne and Jubilee were making cutting motions across their throats and shaking their heads. If Beast noticed, however, he gave no sign, and simply gazed tolerantly at his perhaps most difficult student.

"Bring my bad grades into it, why don't you?"

"That wasn't my intention, actually. Obviously my oratorical skills are lacking this morning. All I was trying to put across was that Miss Feral will be requiring most of my attention, and there is little you can do to aid her now that you couldn't do post-school this afternoon." He peered over the rims of his spectacles almost expectantly.

Ray drew himself up, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep and stirring himself for a whip-crack retort. Yet, all at once, the wind went out of his sails. He looked at Feral's still form, taking in the beeping machinery, the whitewashed walls and the sparkling tiles of the Infirmary. His feet chose that moment to remind him how cold they were, sending tingles up his legs and making every hair on his body stand up in an effort to conserve some semblance of warmth. He rubbed indecisively at his nose.

Whether he was about to say something or not, all words ceased as the door to the med-lab opened and a familiar shaggy blonde head poked in. All four conscious occupants turned to look, and the face flushed under their gaze.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt y'all, but... uh..." Sam stammered, thrown by the tension crackling in the air into forgetting what he was about to say.

Ray narrowed his eyes. Sam was another of the Institute's residents who fell under the generic name New Mutant, as did Jubilee, Rahne, and himself – in fact, all those students who joined the X-Men at the beginning of the preceding school year were collected together and termed the New Mutants, or New Recruits. As such, most people imagined all those who went by that moniker were 'the best of friends', since they were rarely referred to individually, and tended to be trained as a group.

They couldn't, however, have been further from the truth.

Take Sam, for instance. He was a friendly soul, always open to conversation with others, but his closest bonds were most undoubtedly with Rahne and Jubilee. 'The odd couple plus one', as Ray had once labelled them. They generally went around as a trio, and wherever you found one, another was no doubt close by. Yet the older students, the 'real' X-Men, barely acknowledged this bond, choosing instead to go by first impressions and absorb them into the collective idiom 'New Mutants'.

It irked Ray as much, if not more, than the title 'Institute kids' at school.

Beast rescued Sam from his uncomfortable hemming and hawing by clipping a sheet of paper to his clipboard with a loud 'SNAP'. "Good morning, Mr. Guthrie. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Sam blinked, then scratched the back of his head and stepped into the room properly, allowing the doors to slide shut behind him. "Um, I just came to say that Scott's carpool will be leavin' soon, an'... an'..." Surprisingly, he was grinning beneath his blush, like he'd just stumbled upon some great joke and was simply bursting to tell someone. Yet, being Sam, he was too bashful to just come out and say it. Seeing Ray in the room had made him tongue-tied – visibly an after-effect of the admission last night.

Ray folded his arms. Sam was one of those unfortunate souls who, when someone scratched, was immediately convinced it was because he had fleas. Everything was always his fault, and sometimes it took the combined efforts of both Rahne _and_ Jubilee to convince him otherwise. Needless to say, this got on Ray's infamously short nerves, and since this morning he was already halfway toward a foul temper, Sam's dilly-dallying lit the fuse extra quickly.

"Just come out and say it if you're gonna say it, Farmboy," he snapped, once again using a nickname he knew was disliked.

Sam turned beet red, and Jubilee shot Ray a dark look. She might've bitten his head off, but the taller boy gabbled out his words quicker than she and cut her off.

"You guys just _gotta_ see this. It's... it's just too _funny_."

"See what?" Rahne raised an eyebrow, but Sam just shook his head.

"I can't tell y'all. That'd spoil it. You just... aw heck, just come an' take a gander an' see for yourselves." He cast a glance at Beast. "Uh, that is, if'n you don't need 'em for aught, Mr. McCoy..."

Beast waved a hand. "Go on, be off with you. As I was telling Mr. Crisp, there's little for any of you down here. Go back out into the sunlight and leave this old fogey to his work." He fixed an eye on Ray. "_All_ of you."

"Uh, actually," Sam toed the floor tiles, "Professor Xavier wants a word with you, Ray. Sent me down to fetch you to his study, so if you'll just come with me - "

"I can find it by myself," Ray said snappishly, taking a final glance at both Feral and Beast, and then roughly shouldering his way to the door. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a _complete_ retard."

* * *

* * *

Ray entered the study without knocking, since the door was half open. The Professor was sitting behind his desk, waiting for him. The scene was so reminiscent of the previous night that he had to stop and look out the window at the streaming daylight to make sure he wasn't experiencing some creepy kind of déjà vu.

Outside was a tall poplar tree, branches extended toward the window like questing fingers tapering to thin, twisted points. The smattering of greenery did nothing to conceal the tiny bird's nest squeezed into the framework. The mother atop her eggs trilled in the crisp morning air. She was tiny, and the tree dwarfed her utterly, yet her song was strong and clear, unabashed by the raw majesty with which she was surrounded.

For some inexplicable reason, Ray found himself staring at the creature for several seconds, until Professor Xavier's polite cough drew him back to the world of the waking. Then he blinked profusely, green dots obfuscating his vision even as he took the proffered seat.

"If you're gonna start with that 'you know why I've called you' crap then you can forget it. 'Cause I don't."

Xavier's expression remained astutely neutral. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, as was his habit. "I didn't expect you to, actually. I just called you to see if you wanted to... talk."

That threw him. Ray blinked again, and this time it was nothing to do with staring too long at reflected sunlight. "Talk? Why would I wanna do _that_? I did enough talking last night, thanks."

Xavier nodded. "Yes, I know. And didn't you feel better for it?"

It was a simple question, but one which Ray took a second to answer. Had he felt better for spouting so much to the other X-Men? "Yeah..." he admitted. "I guess so. It felt... kinda good to tell someone about... stuff."

Another nod. "Ray, I'll be blunt. You've suffered a great loss. I just wanted to give you the opportunity to talk to an open ear if you felt so inclined. Talking has been proven as a great help to those going through stress or trauma. When my... when I was first put into a wheelchair, I found it useful talking to someone about how I was feeling rather than bottling everything up inside of myself."

"So you wanna play psychiatrist? Is that it?"

He spread his hands wide. "I'd like to listen. If you want me to, that is. I'm not pressuring you, Ray. You might like to talk to someone other than me – one of the other students, perhaps? Or another member of staff? But I'd advise you to talk to _somebody_ about what you found out last night."

He hadn't said it yet. _Trying to be diplomatic_, Ray supposed. "The Morlocks." He filled in the blank with customary brusqueness. Then he unfolded his arms and let them drape either side of the chair's armrests, refraining from picking at them this time. "I don't need to talk to anybody else."

"Ray, I really do think - "

"You'll do just fine."

"...Oh." Xavier blinked. Then his face creased into a wry smile. "I suppose I walked into that one, didn't I?"

"You can cut the crap, Professor. You wanna know how I feel about this whole thing so I don't spontaneously combust or something, right?"

"You have a certain way with words, Ray, but that's essentially it. Restraining emotion and feelings, only to stew on them later is a dangerous, potentially self-destructive thing." He sucked in a lungful of air, and then let it out through his teeth, as if what he was saying was difficult. "Just look at Juggernaut."

Ray looked up. He nodded, slowly. "Yeah... I guess." Like all the non-original X-Men who had battled Juggernaut, Ray had been related the tale on several different occasions, and knew all about the Professor's connections.

"So, at the risk of sounding, uh, cheesy," Xavier struggled slightly with the colloquialism, but ploughed on regardless, "how _do_ you feel right now?"

"I don't feel all mushy and sad. But I do feel angry. Big surprise, huh?"

"Angry?" His brows pulled together. "About what? Surely you're not angry at yourself for sharing your secrets with the other students?"

"That too, but not so much as I thought I would. Like I said, it felt kinda... good to tell them about stuff." Ray shrugged. "I'm angry at what made me have to tell 'em in the first place. I feel like... like I wanna find that Sevarius jerk and - " He punched a fist into the palm of his other hand.

"Ah. It might not seem like it, but actually, that kind of reaction is perfectly normal."

"The Morlocks never _did_ anything to him," Ray went on regardless. "We – they, were just living, and he thought he could just waltz down there and do what liked because he _could_! Because he _wanted_ to! It just... ach!" Sparks of electricity crackled through his stiff bangs, demonstrating his anger where words could not. "And you know what the worst part is?"

Xavier shook his head, despite it being a rhetorical question.

"I don't know who's still alive and who's not. It's like... some kinda limbo, if that makes sense. I never had to grieve for nobody before, and now it feels like I should be doing a helluva lot of grieving, and I can't, because I'm not sure who I'm supposed to be doing it _for_. And I can't even go find out, neither, because of that stupid law." Ray sighed, rubbing the back of his collar where the percale was itching. "Y'know what I mean?"

"I can't say that I'm totally familiar with the situation; but yes, I do know what you mean." Xavier laid his hands flat on the table. "Suspended grief is surprisingly common. Feral's presence here may actually have a positive influence, since you know that, if one of the Morlocks survived, more may also have done. The fact that she came specifically to you for help may also be a constructive thing. If you can do something for her, then - "

"I won't feel so bad for leaving when they needed me," Ray cut in. At Xavier's surprised expression, he raised his shoulders to touch his ears. "You were just gonna take five sentences to dress it up and say it nice. Thought I'd beat you to the punch. Professor, I know all that. I got my second chance when I came here, and now... it's like I can help Feral have hers. And... maybe... just maybe, I can... make up for what I did... before."

Xavier didn't need his telepathy to see the thought process crossing Ray's face. He leaned forward in earnest. "Ray, you shouldn't feel guilty about coming here – about leaving the Morlocks. You did nothing wrong."

Ray met his gaze, and there was something written in his eyes that Xavier had never seen there before. It looked almost like... culpability. Regret. The soft tone of voice he next used was also incongruous.

"I think I'd like to go now." Ray let a breath out through his nostrils and dropped his line of sight to the carpet he was currently scuffing with his bare foot. "Look, Professor, I appreciate you taking the time to do this and all, but really, I'm okay. Just so long as I can help Feral, I won't go off on one and burn down the fucking school or anything psycho, all right? I've watched documentaries before – with Mr. McCoy in the house, it's kind a hard to get away from the Discovery Channel. Anyway, I know that people deal with... with death in different ways. I'm not as upset about this whole mess as I thought I would be. I suppose, since I've been gone for a whole year, it doesn't hurt so bad as... I mean... but... if Feral... aw fuckit! Look, I'll be fine. Just let me get on with things my way and I'll be okay."

Xavier nodded, a practised, almost fatherly action. "I won't say I understand, because only you know how you really feel, Ray. But I want you to know that, should you want to talk any more about this – or anything else, for that matter – I'm always here. One of the reasons I opened this Institute was to help young mutants learn about their powers, but that's not to say I mean to neglect all others parts of your lives."

Ray rose from his seat. Then he stopped, balancing on the edge. "Aw shit, I forgot the time! I'm not even dressed yet, and Mr. McCoy said I had to fucking well go to school!"

"Mr. McCoy is working to the theorem that keeping to a routine will keep your mind occupied and so not allow you to dwell overmuch on anything... painful," Xavier said simply. "Harsh as it may sound, I'm inclined to agree with him." He glanced at the clock. "That's not to say I can't write a note for the office explaining why you're late, if you want to pay a last visit to the Infirmary before leaving. Logan or Ororo can run you down to the school in the X-Van." He thought for a moment and then amended himself. "_Ororo_ will run you down to school in the X-Van."

Ray didn't say anything for a second, and Xavier wondered if he'd taken too much liberty.

However...

"Thanks Professor."

* * *

* * *

"For the last time, _no_!"

"Pleeeeeeeease? Pretty, pretty please? With a cherry on top?"

"Kurt! I said no!"

Scott trawled through the foyer, hop-skipping on his crutches as fast as he could, and with a fuzzy blue limpet in hot pursuit. Kurt danced around his friend's legs, darting in front and causing him to pull up short.

Scott looked over his shoulder at the small crowd that was gathering in their wake. Young and old X-Men alike stood pseudo-nonchalantly, hiding giggles behind their hands and notebooks at the comedy-drama playing out before them. At the forefront he could see Jean snickering behind her flimsy Psychology textbook, and for a second he was struck by the incongruous question of why the inner working of the human psyche – by all accounts an intricate network of wrong turns and all sorts of other technical mumbo jumbo – could be condensed into such a tiny book.

He shook his head, trying to concentrate on the elf that had been following him around since he left his room, and had yet to let up on his crusade. Well, actually Kurt had been waiting for Scott the moment he woke up, perched upside down on the ceiling like a grinning gargoyle, inserted while the X-Men leader slept. Still, the sentiment was still the same.

Scott had tried everything to shake him off, but Kurt refused to leave until parted by classes at school – or else he got the answer he wanted. The answer Scott had refused to give thus far on principle, if nothing else.

He rounded awkwardly on Kurt, wishing his foot was well enough to stamp. "Kurt, no! You are not driving my car to school!"

"Aw, come on, man. Be a sport. It's not like you can do it with a bum leg." Kurt grinning, showing his fangs.

"That's not the point."

"Then what _is_ the point? You can't drive, and the carpool kinda depends on a car, if you hadn't noticed."

"Wise guy."

"I know."

"The point is, the last – and only – time I let you behind the wheel of my baby, you scratched all the paintwork doing I don't know what, and brought it back needing an unpunctured tyre and new radiator."

"Details, details, who cares about details?"

"Me!"

Kurt pouted and folded his arms. "So... what then? Or were you intending on all of us staying home today?"

Scott cast a pleading glance at Jean, but she just shrugged helplessly since she was carpooling with Duncan when he arrived. Rogue was already long gone on her step-through, and obviously none of the younger recruits were old enough – or, if they were, he didn't count them as responsible enough to handle his baby. Bobby in particular shrank away from his gaze, as did Sam and Jubilee when they appeared from a side corridor with Rahne.

Ray was nowhere to be seen, and some small part of Scott felt glad for that. Needless to say, he also instantly felt excessively guilty for thinking such a thing, but he had to admit to himself that he really couldn't face that particular verbal minefield right now.

Putting the thought out of mind, Scott even tried looking at Kitty, but she just mirrored Jean's shrug. She was old enough to drive, sure, but one of Kitty's few faults was that she'd never actually taken her test. It had something to do with her Dad not wanting to lend her the family car at home, if he remembered right, and Kitty had always been quite happy to accept rides off people with cars so there had never been any pressing need for her to learn.

Not that any of that helped Scott now.

"Scott!" Kurt bounded in front of him, grinning and swinging his tail as if to grab his crutch.

"Kurt! Leave off! Go grow wings or something. Or ask Amanda to run you to school."

"Excuse me? Scott, Amanda lives on the other side of town. Or had that slipped your mind?"

It had, but that wasn't about to stop Scott's vain battle to keep his car, if not perfect, then at least in one piece.

In actuality he knew that his argument was flawed, as was evidenced by the growing number of students in the foyer clamouring for a ride. Early morning carpool was always a struggle, what with the race to avoid public transport by nabbing a ride in his convertible; but today it was proving doubly so. The dull ache in his ankle wasn't helping.

_Calm down_, Jean's 'voice' soothed.

_I'm trying, but Kurt's making it very difficult. He just doesn't know when to let go - _

As if to punctuate this, Kurt grabbed one of Scott's hands and got down on one knee, batting his eyelids. Whether a by-product of his mutation or something else, Kurt had been blessed with extra long, bushy eyelashes, and when they fluttered, they really _fluttered_.

"You have beautiful eyes, you know that?" he said in a deep voice.

Several 'oohs' resonated from the crowd of students, as well as many more giggles at the absurd sight. Scott could've sworn he heard Sam say "See, I told y'all it was worth seein'," but it was instantly drowned out by Bobby's catcall and cry of, "Are you gonna give him the ring now, Kurt?"

Scott turned twelve shades of red and pulled his hand away. "_Kurt_," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"What? Wheedling hasn't worked, so I was trying to be nice to you instead. Don't you feel flattered?"

"How about, 'no'?"

"Heart of stone. How could you resist this face?" He fluttered again.

"Very easily," Scott replied, and found one of his crutches snagged and carried off. He balanced on the other, wobbling slightly at the sudden lack-of-left-crutch, and yelped indignantly "Kurt! You bring that back here this _minute_, or I'll singe your tail so bad you won't be able to sit down for a week!"

Kurt just laughed, hooking the crutch in his tail and clambering vertically up the wall to crouch by the light fitting. There, he dangled it just out of Scott's reach and grinned like a furry blue goblin. "You want it? Then fork over the keys."

"No! Nein! Non! Nyet! How many ways can I say it before you get the message?" Scott tried to appear threatening, but the effect was greatly diminished by the fact that he was struggling to maintain his balance while trying to grab for the crutch.

Finally, amidst the cackling and laughing, Jean took pity on him and telekinetically fetched it down for him.

"Aw, you're no fun," Kurt sulked, folding his arms and sticking out his lower lip. He sat cross-legged, torso jutting horizontally into the air as he peered down at the collection of teammates. Scott thought he'd never looked quite so much like a little elf. Put him in a tunic and feathered cap and the effect would be complete.

Jean was firm, handing the crutch back to Scott and speaking to them both in her patented 'lecture mode'. "Now Kurt, you know it's not right to pick on the injured, even if they are being pig-headed." That earned a smattering of titters, which Scott promptly turned to ice with his glare. "And Scott," she went on, "Kurt does have a point. A carpool requires a car, and since you're in no fit state to drive, it only makes sense for him to pilot in your stead. However," she looked up at the manically grinning elf, "that doesn't mean you'd get to do what you want with it, Kurt. The car is still Scott's. Don't forget that, should he consent to letting you behind the wheel, he'd be right beside you the entire time."

Scott looked at Jean and saw the sense to her words. If nothing else, he couldn't be expected to hop all the way to school. He sighed and fumbled in his pocket. The keys glinted as he held them up.

Kurt's joyful shout was only eclipsed by the sound of him 'porting direct to the garage, and the scramble of the others to follow him by more conventional means (i.e. on foot).

"Am I going to regret this?" Scott asked Jean as they half walked, half hobbled to the door.

Jean gave a knowing smile. "You can't control everything, remember? Give Kurt a chance. It _was_ last year when he last drove your car."

"Yeah, well, when something's been burned onto your memory like that, time's irrelevant." Scott shuddered, remembering the sight of Kurt standing repentant in front of an automobile that looked not quite ready for the scrap yard, but pretty damn close. The fact that he'd been holding a windshield wiper in his hands and trying to fix it back on with chewing gum was insult to injury. It was only through 'porting up a tree he'd narrowly escaped having said wiper shoved somewhere unpleasant. As Scott recalled, Kurt had lived the rest of that week in fear of his fuzzy blue hide, ducking into rooms whenever he saw Scott heading his way, and avoiding the carpool like the plague.

The sounds of bickering and squabbling over seats assaulted his ears the moment he and Jean stepped through the glass doors. It was all Scott could do not to groan in anticipation of the whining that was invariably to follow.

"Scott, it's my turn to ride with you today."

"Scott, tell Evan to board to school."

"Scott, as royalty, it is my right to ride in your car."

"Scott, make Roberto ride the frikkin' bike his folks bought him. It's sunny enough for him to make it there before any of us anyway."

"Please, Scott, can I hitch a lift?"

"Why _can't_ I go with you? I'm _always_ on the bus!"

"Get out of my seat! Yes, it _does_ have my name written on it."

Jean shot him a rueful glance, and then tapped down the steps and driveway towards where Duncan's blue Porsche was waiting outside the main gate. Scott watched her go, and then turned towards the garage and his fate therein.

_I hate mornings._

* * *

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**To Be Continued...**

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**Review Responses**

_Ten reviews! Fuckin' A! I may be a sell-out, but I'm a happy sell-out._

**Me - **I know. I felt all dirty having to do it, but... working really hard on a fic and then having it ignored sucks mutant parrot eggs. As for the dealie with Claremont... when Claremont is hot, he can burn your fingers of at fifty paces. When he's not, you want to tie him to his chair and take away his writing equipment. During his first run on the X-Men comics he instigated the Phoenix enchilada, started the New Mutants series and helped create those characters, and took care of the Morlock Massacre. All three of those still ring in the X-universe. However, he also gave us... the Starjammers, Lilandra, the Shi'ar, and everything that goes with them. He essentially took the X-Men and turned it into a space opera for a while, which works in some respects but not in others. He recently came back to Marvel and yes, he was the one who killed off Psylocke, which pissed off a whole bunch of people. He also resurrected Magneto after a really good bit of emotional turmoil following ol' bucket-head's demise, and so pretty much negated all that luverly characterisation in favour of sending Xavier on a freaky mind-trip for no discernable purpose. So... yeah. Claremont is a mixed bag. I'd still take him over Chuck Austen, though.

**Proponant of EVO - **Why thank you. I'm pleased you think so.

**Pyro Tsunami - **When I started this fic there was little to now Ray/Berzerker fic out there. And there still isn't much, but in the interim some stuff has popped up that makes me wonder whether I was watching the same show as everyone else. So I'm glad someone else interpreted Ray's character the same way I did. Thankee kindly.

**SperryDee - **_The Most Beautiful_. Makes note I'll see what I can do. I'm up to my ears in essays and new-job-ish-ness at the moment, but I will get around to it after this week finishes and I can breathe again.

**Angel of the Fallen Stars - **You liked that one? Funny, I thought it was one of the weakest chapters. Huh. Just goes to show, I don't know a bloody thing about knowing my audience. Sweatdrops

**Pixie Stix Addict - **Shhh! Flails wildly You'll give the game away! Hopefully the whole 'Ray watching over Feral' thing was explained in this chapter (along with the 'second chance' reference).

**Madleinx -** Argh! Please, tell me where my syntax falls down. I'd prefer to know than get all righteous about not getting reviews and then find out it's because my bad grammar is driving people away in droves. But thank you for the review. Kisses feet And OBAB is... still there. Staring at me. Such beady eyes... Whimpers

**LanceisHot - **And again I'm proved wrong. I didn't like that chapter, but overall I thought the 'fearless leader' thing was cheesy. Glad to see someone thought different.

**Katatonia -** That does indeed possess much of the suckage. Magneto and crew aren't slated to appear, but you never know...


	9. Back to Reality

* * *

Chapter Eight – _Back to Reality_

* * *

As a complete antithesis to the previous night, a cloudless blue sky housed a cheery sun. It shone on the contents of the red convertible, as it pulled into the street that led to Bayville High. Somewhere, a robin trilled, and leaves whispered in a light breeze that promised a pleasantly warm day. Out for a walk with its owner, a dog barked at a squirrel. At the corner bus stop elementary school kids laughed at an old joke making the rounds of yet another generation. Cars hummed, as Moms and Dads went about their daily lives, totally unaware they were passing a carload of teenagers so powerful they could wipe this pleasant little berg off the map if they wanted to.

Fortunately for them, none of them wanted to.

In fact, the only thing they were in danger of doing at that moment was being late for school.

"Come _on_, Kurt. Like, pull the lead out." Kitty jiggled impatiently, eyes fixed on the looming brick bulk that was their destination. So near, and yet so far, since a huge lorry bearing a skip had chosen to stop right in front of them to unload its cargo into a front yard. It blocked the entire side of the street not already choked by motorists.

"Excuse me." Scott twisted around in the front passenger seat. "The lead will stay exactly where it is, thank you very much. No pulling is going to happen between here and school."

Kitty harrumphed and fell back, arms folded.

Next to her, Amara tossed her hair and rested her chin on her fist, staring at the passing traffic, as she was wont to do. Nova Roma wasn't exactly automobile capitol of the world. She had been known to pass hours on long road trips just watching other drivers and their vehicles. Kitty shot her a look, then turned her attention to her backpack.

"Ever the organised one, eh?" Bobby grinned. After much griping, Evan had been forced to utilize his beloved skateboard to get to school, and Bobby had jumped at the chance to take his place. It seemed that, for this morning at least, the New Mutants were making headway on the carpool situation, claiming two fifths of the seating arrangement for their number. A rare occurrence indeed.

Kitty negated his comment by grubbing around her satchel and bringing out a stick of lip-gloss and small compact. Since the car was stationary, she risked applying a fresh coat to her already slick lips. "It'd be faster if I, like, walked," she mumbled between strokes.

"Then why don't you?" Amara didn't take her eyes from the sleek blue Mustang on the other side of the road.

"I'll assume that was a rhetorical question. Kurt, overtake the guy already."

Kurt, conscious of Scott's penetrating glare, thought better of following Kitty's advice. "Nein, Kätzchen, I value my hide too much."

Scott nodded, pleased that Jean had been proved right, even if it meant he looked more pig-headed than ever. "Good choice."

"But we're gonna be _la-ate_."

"Worried you'll miss Lancey-poo before class?" Kurt grinned at her in the mirror. "Don't worry. We'll get there on time." A loud clang sounded from the crane lowering the skip into the driveway. Kurt winced in Scott's direction. "Uh, and in one piece, too. Of course."

Scott sighed, rearranging his injured foot into a more comfortable position. Faced with nothing better to do, his mind started to wander, meandering through various facetious bits and bobs but never settling on one subject long enough for him to latch on and start up a conversation. To call the atmosphere 'strained' was an understatement.

As it was, he didn't have start one at all. Amara took up the bat, snapping from her reverie and saying loudly, "Okay, I'm tired of avoiding it. What did everyone else think about last night? There must be _some_ opinions floating about."

A kid passing by gave them an odd look and hurried on. In the mirror, Scott could see Bobby grimace. "You make it sound like something... carnal," he said in a low voice, kicking the back of Scott's chair until he was made to stop by The Look.

"Someone buy you a thesaurus?"

"Shut up, Kitty. And if you're talking about Ray, then I don't have many thoughts on the whole thing."

"Now there's a surprise."

"I said shut _up_, Kitty." Bobby gave her a playful shove, leaving a lip-gloss smear all up her left cheek.

"Bobby!" she squealed, fumbling around inside her bag for a tissue.

Reaching into the side pocket of his door, Scott passed back a small box of Kleenex Travelsize.

Kitty's glare was turned into a pout by the splodge. "Honestly can't you act your age just for once?"

"I'd rather act my shoe size," Bobby replied. "So what are _your_ thoughts on last night's little admission?" Then he pulled a face. "Man, talk about an Oprah moment."

Kitty dabbed at her face with the tissue. "Quite honestly? I feel sorry for Ray. Not that I'd ever say that to his face, of course. Unless I wanted him to rip mine off."

Kurt glanced in his rear view mirror again, nodding. "I know what you mean, Kätzchen. It took a lot of guts for him to tell us what he did. I've been bound by oaths before, and they play on your honour enough to make you FUITH."

"Ray has honour?" Bobby asked just as Scott said, "You took an oath? For what?"

Kurt just waved a careless hand at the question. His holoprojector glinted in the sunlight. "It's not important. But if Morlock oaths are anything like Romany oaths, then Ray took a huge step of faith breaking his to tell us about them."

Kitty paused long enough to blink. For a moment she looked positively vacuous - a lot more than she actually was, as her test scores proved. "I… never thought about it that way. A step of faith? I thought Ray didn't even _like_ us, much less trust us."

"He's not so bad." Scott shrugged at their surprised expressions. "What? He's not my best buddy or anything, but the guy's not a total fiend, either."

"Well that's open to debate." Bobby rubbed ruefully at the back of his head, remembering the many times Ray had accidentally-on-purpose caught him with stray electricity. Sometimes it was a genuine mishap, but sometimes…

"I feel kinda stink, now," Kitty said suddenly. "I mean, we never realised any of that – not even Jean. You'd think we'd have enough intuition to tell when one of our own is keeping something from us."

Scott remembered Jean's talk of yesterday and nodded. Beside him, Kurt mirrored the move, though the two younger X-Men in back seemed a little more reticent on the matter.

"I dunno," said Bobby, "Ray didn't want anybody to know about it, did he? I mean, you could tell that last night, even without him saying it in so many words. He _wanted_ the whole business kept a secret."

"Still," Amara mused, surprising them all, "I do feel rather… odd after what he said. He never wanted us to know, but that doesn't make his loss any less. He was obviously upset by the… what? Why are you all looking at me like that?"

Bobby made a show of rubbing his eyes. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with Amara?"

She scowled and folded her arms, tossing her hair as she often did when annoyed. And any other time, too. She had much love for her shiniest-of-shiny hair. "Hmmph! There's no need to be _that_ way about it. I'm not completely heartless, I just don't choose to wear my feelings on my sleeve. Unlike _some_ people. People who moon over every little thing." She looked meaningfully at Kitty, who spread her hands wide.

"_What_?"

"Don't deny it. If anyone so much as says the name 'Lance Alvers' you go weak at the knees."

Kitty flipped her ponytail in a perfect imitation of Amara's hair-toss. "Excuse me, but my knees have nothing to do with you." Then she looked contrite. "But I must admit, I agree with what you're, like, saying. I feel like we should, I dunno… like we should do something for Ray. I mean, we took so long to pick up on what's been bothering him. The least we can do is help him feel better about… what happened to the Morlocks. Now that we know, I mean."

Kurt nodded vigorously.

Bobby ventured, "A party?"

"Obviously you've never lost a loved-one, mein Freund."

"Hey, the Morlocks weren't exactly loved-ones. Ray wasn't their best pal or anything – he said so himself, remember? But I get you. No party." He perused his fingers. "So… what then? I hardly think Ray's the kind of guy who'd appreciate a box of chocolates and a condolence card."

Scott frowned, lost in thought. "What about… hmmm."

"Sounds like you have an idea." Kurt punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I can hear the cogs turning in your head. Come on, fess up, what do you think we should do?"

"Well, there's the obvious," Scott said slowly. "Just try to help that mutant, Feral, to get better. Maybe settle in if she stays. Ray's obviously attached to her, or at least feels some kind of loyalty, what with her being a Morlock and all. Maybe if we pitch in and make her feel welcome… that'd take some of the stress away from him. Make him see we don't hold anything against him for being a Morlock, or not telling us before now…"

"But that's not all, is it? Come on; I know that look." Kurt took his eyes off the road to look at his friend and raise an eyebrow. "We're waiting."

In answer, Scott swivelled around. "Kitty, you're a computer whiz, right?"

"Depends which teacher you ask," she replied smoothly. "Mrs. Connolly thinks I'm a jinx after I blew up a couple of terminals in a power blip. My hands just phased right through the keyboards whenever I went to type something, then 'ZZIP'! Short circuit."

"But you know more about the Internet than the rest of us? Like, how to look up certain genetic researchers…"

Bobby's eyes widened, before his face fell into a habitual mischievous smirk. "I think I see where this is going. You want her to find out about that Cerberus jerk, don't you?"

"Sevarius," Scott corrected, neither nodding nor shaking his head as a couple of seniors waltzed past, arm-in-arm and giggling at something girlish and trivial. He thought one of them sometimes hung out with Taryn. Maybe she was on the soccer team. Couldn't they walk any faster?

Kitty pocketed her gloss and pressed her lips together to even out the residual gloopy mess, no doubt wanting to look her best should Lance's jeep happen to pull in anywhere near them. Provided they ever actually made it to school, of course.

Scott leaned over the side of his door to where the workmen on the truck were having the resident sign something attached to a clipboard, and only heard, rather than saw Kitty's answer.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, we don't know anything about the guy other than what Ray told us. Apart from it being unethical to pry, I like, wouldn't even know where to start looking."

"You're talking about ethics when we're discussing a guy who murdered and did who knows what else to a bunch of harmless hobos?" Amara snapped, perhaps a little more strident than Scott might've liked. As pleasant a surprise her sudden concern for her teammate was, Amara had yet to fully appreciate little nuances like 'tact', having had only minimal use for it in her position on Nova Roma.

"We only have Ray's word on that," Kitty pointed out, sticking commendably to her objectivity. "I mean, from what you told me about Feral and what she said, Ray may have jumped the gun or something. He's not the most clear-headed of people in a crisis. Or have you forgotten when he freaked out in that underwater training sim and fried your butt?"

Amara scowled, brows furrowing so deep you could practically plant potatoes in them. She ignored the reminder, sniffing mightily and sticking her pert little nose in the air like a true aristocrat.

"Look, let's just take it as Ray says and assume he's right," Scott mediated. "Could you look for Sevarius on the Internet? If he's some kind of geneticist then there would have to be some record of him _somewhere_."

"I probably could, yeah. But what would you do with anything I found?" Kitty narrowed her eyes. "I'm not getting involved if you're planning on paying him a visit. He could be anywhere in the country – if he's in even _in_ the country anymore. The Professor would _definitely_ have our hides if we went off like that."

Scott was forced to agree.

"Couldn't you just satisfy our curiosity then, Kätzchen?" Kurt asked, gripping the wheel a little tighter as the drivers in front finally clambered back into their truck. "Just tell us who he is, at least." He looked winsomely at her in the mirror.

Kitty sighed and threw up her hands. "Fine, I'll find out about him for you. But I'm not infiltrating anything illegal; so don't even ask. Unless the Professor gives the say-so, the guy stays where he is, and we _don't_ take the law into our own hands - "

"Aw, Kitty, you're no fun," Bobby pouted.

" - No matter how much of a despicable, cold-hearted jerk-off he is, and no matter how much we'd like to shove a computer up his dark dimension."

"Uh, scratch that."

* * *

Sam trudged into his first period class with an aura of doom hanging around his shoulders. And it wasn't all to do with the Ray-Feral incident, either.

Today was the day Killjoy returned their English essays – something Sam had spent scant time on, the subject matter leaving him cold. He'd tried to get into it, for a passable grade on his report if nothing else, but it was so _boring_. Hopefully he'd get points for effort, though. His track record in English wasn't spectacular, but if he could pick up his score now, before the report cards came out, then maybe…

Killjoy's beady-eyed stare wasn't encouraging. He sank into his seat to await judgment.

It wasn't long in coming.

The F stared at him balefully, ringed several times in red ink. There were a few comments smattered here and there in identical print, but he barely glanced over them.

An F.

Nobody else wore anything less than a smile. A couple even whooped.

He was officially a bottom-feeder

_Nutbunnies_.

It plagued him the rest of the lesson, making him even more distracted than normal. Several times Killjoy picked him up on not paying attention, but always he went back to glowering at the sheet of paper covered in his scrawly blue script. It was smudged in several places, and one corner was stained a dirty brown where he'd dropped his backpack in a puddle on the way to school.

Okay, so maybe his presentation left a bit to be desired, but he'd worked really hard on this essay. Sometimes teachers just forgot that there was anything less than perfection, and expected people to live up to their own high standards, no matter what their age or knowledge.

_Um, hello? Working without a degree to my name, here._

The end of class couldn't come soon enough. When the mitigating bell finally tolled Sam lurched to his feet and haphazardly shoved things into his bag. He put off touching his ring-binder and the treacherous paper therein, instead pausing to rearrange his paraphernalia into a more orderly composition to eat up the time. The eraser went in the pencil case, which went next to his textbooks, which were laid flat on top of –

"Mr. Guthrie."

Damn.

"Yes, Miss Kilroy?" Sam turned to face the nasally-enhanced teacher, painting a look of practised indifference on his face. It was the same look he'd refined back home, when dealing with the 'farmboy' taunts from townie kids. He'd been using it for so long it was almost a relief to fall into it – like an old pair of slippers, as his father used to say.

Killjoy perched on the corner of her desk, sensible flat shoes dangling. She held her half-moon spectacles in one hand and a small book in the other. The book was old. The edges were frayed and torn, and the pages looked as though they'd seen many better days. The deep red cover stood out against her pale brown skirt, and a layer of dust from it had caught on the sharp pleats. She looked at Sam, chewing the hook of her glasses thoughtfully.

"Mr. Guthrie, that last paper was rather… disturbing."

_You're tellin' me_. "I'm sorry, Miss Kilroy. I was just a bit stressed, is all. Not concentratin' properly. It won't happen again."

"I seem to recall you saying such a thing last time I graded a paper of yours. And the time before that. and the time before that, unless I'm very much mistaken." She removed the frame from her mouth and peered at him through half-seeing eyes. "Mr. Guthrie, I won't lie to you. Your grades in English are less than satisfactory, and from the way you act in class, they don't look to go up anytime soon. A worrying trend, I think you'll agree. This isn't anything to do with my half of the equation, I do believe, which is another worrying thing. You just don't seem to put in the effort you could into your work."

Sam looked longingly to the door, but stayed where he was. Perhaps if he said something she'd let him go. A minute longer in this stuffy classroom was a minute too long. "Pardon me for sayin' so, Miss Kilroy, but I _did_ try on that last paper. Really hard, too. I just couldn't get into the book enough to write anythin' proper about it." He scuffed his shoe, making a loud squeak on the floor tile.

Killjoy winced. "Indeed? I was under the impression the whole class understood the basics of Jane Austen. Certainly, nobody told me anything different." She stared almost accusingly at him. "I don't appreciate such matters being left until written work is due in, Mr. Guthrie. I'm a teacher. I'm here to teach. But I can't very well do that unless you tell me when and where you're having difficulties. I'm not a mind reader. I do have my limits." She spread her hands wide. "Is there something in particular you find difficult about this book?"

"Well…" _Might as well take the plunge, I suppose. Not gonna get outta here any sooner, otherwise_. "It's just… it's so darn _borin'_, ma'am. Nuthin' seems to happen."

"I see. Did you actually read it all the way through?"

He nodded. Well, he'd read the first few chapters, and then an online summary, so he knew pretty well what happened. Which wasn't much.

Killjoy sighed through her teeth. "Well, I'll freely admit that Austen's aren't the most action-packed of books, but I'd hardly say _nothing_ happens in them." She replaced her glasses on her nose and looked closely at Sam over the steel rims. "Could it be that you believe nothing of any _note_ happens in them, perhaps; as opposed to nothing at all?" She sounded slightly defensive, as well she might. Jane Austen was notoriously Killjoy's favourite. That much was made clear by the huge posters on the walls advertising adaptations and theatrical versions of her work. The idea that someone didn't think the Austen was the best thing since sliced bread obviously didn't sit well with her.

"I suppose," Sam granted her that much. Not because he agreed with what she was saying, but in a simple attempt to remove himself from this place before his brain melted.

Killjoy pounced. "Ah, so you admit that you're judging the book on what you think _should_ happen, rather than just seeing what _does_ happen."

_I said that? _"Uh…" was the best Sam could think to say. "I… guess so?"

The classroom door was open. Outside it the next cluster of students waited, milling around noisily and shouting to friends in the busy inter-lesson rush. Feet thrummed the hallway, and voices raised in a clamour of daily teenage life that school dared to hinder. Killjoy glanced at her waiting class and made an irritated hissing noise, like she really couldn't be bothered to deal with them right now.

"I'll be plain with you, Mr. Guthrie. You have a lot of potential. It's clear in what you _do_ write that you have the capability to do very well academically if you just applied yourself a bit more. Now, far be it for me to show favouritism to any of my students, but I looked out this book for you from the school library. Yes, the school does indeed have one of those big rooms filled with books. Not that you'd know it considering how many people actually frequent the place." She thrust out the faded red book. When Sam failed to jump up and euphorically wrestle it from her, she shoved it into his hands. "Read it. It may be useful."

Sam barely had time to look at the bold, capitalized print on the jacket before she was propelling him out the door. His bag was only partially on his shoulder and his feet tripped over themselves. He couldn't help but blush when a pair of girls at the door tittered. All his old insecurities about his height and gawkiness resurfaced, as they were wont to do when he messed up in Wolverine's training sessions. He ducked his head to scurry away like the little mouse he wasn't.

"No need to say thank you, Mr. Guthrie," Killjoy sniped after him.

He paused long enough to throw a curt "Thank you, ma'am," over his shoulder. Then he let himself be absorbed into the crushing, rushing, smooshing crowd of bodies snaking into classrooms.

_Now that right there; that was messed up. Killjoy givin' me extra help? Think I'm gonna crawl into a corner somewhere an' faint._

* * *

Hank looked up as the med-lab doors slid open, half-expecting to see Ray back again. He'd been surprised to see the boy return in school garb not half an hour after dismissing him.

Then again, he supposed, he'd also anticipated his return, since Ray seemed to have such an attachment to his new patient.

Charles had informed him not two minutes after Ray entered that it was fine for him to be there, but in the end Hank had practically had to chase the boy out, simply so he could get on with properly treating Feral's wounds without someone breathing down his neck and causing him to make mistakes.

So it was with more than a smidgen of astonishment that Hank realised it was not Ray walking through the sliding doors. In actual fact, it was Logan, incongruously carrying a pile of neatly folded green percale and Infirmary blankets that looked suspiciously like those used for Scott, Kitty and Jean not so many hours ago. The pure domesticity of it threw Hank for a moment. It was several seconds before he regained the use of his tongue.

"You know, every time I think I have you figured out, Logan, you do something that surprises me."

"It's a knack." Logan gestured to his armload. "'Ro washed 'em. Said she couldn't sleep a wink after what happened, so she stayed up an' did laundry." He shrugged, as though such methods of distraction were beyond him. Which they probably were, since he had a preference for violence or travel when overly stressed or pensive.

"Ah yes," said Hank, nodding. "Last night. Your eye seems to have healed quite well."

Logan shrugged. "I'll live. As usual. Where d'ya want 'em?"

Sighing, Hank indicated with a nod of his head. His hands were currently engaged in unwrapping the bandages from around Feral's upper arm. Logan's claws had penetrated deeply in their scuffle, and the wounds had been nasty. Nasty enough that he had used up an entire roll of gauze, anyway.

Logan grunted and carried his load over to the small alcove where the pyjamas were kept. The Institute held a range of nightwear in reserve, since one could never be certain who would need to stay overnight in the med-lab. Yet everything was made from the same green percale; itchy to a fault, but a hardy material that could even stand up to bone spikes and sprouting fur without fraying. Hank swore by it, though the students were wont to differ with him on grounds of comfort and colour.

In lieu of any stimulating conversation, Hank went back to concentrating on removing the bandage without reopening the wound he'd so carefully cleaned. A nasty yellow ichor stained the gauze, making even him grimace. He tugged gently, almost delicately, so as not to cause any undue harm.

"That's the way," he whispered in a voice so low a normal human ear would not have heard it. In college, he'd always whispered to himself during experiments and exams, which hadn't gone down terribly well with invigilators, but it helped him concentrate. "Easy does it. Don't want to make this any worse than it already is…"

"Talkin' to yourself, McCoy?" Logan reappeared, minus the laundry and plus a curious smirk.

"The greatest minds have done no less, Logan. Albert Einstein talked to himself."

"Albert Einstein," said Logan, with some degree of finality, "was a crock."

The scientist part of Hank was immediately affronted, but he wasn't so tactless as to voice it. Especially since Logan's pride and demeanour were still sore from the fight with Feral – as evidenced by the dirty look he insisted on throwing her way. So instead, Hank tried to play off the assertion as a joke, and laughed heartily. "You talk like you met him."

The laughter died away at Logan's expression; dark and forbidding, and just this side of angry. Hank's throat made a strange gurgling noise as he wondered whether Logan actually _had_ met Einstein. After all, he was old enough, and had certainly done enough travelling in his exceptionally long life…

"I don't like her bein' here."

The abrupt change in subject was startling, but Hank welcomed the opportunity to stop himself saying something he shouldn't. Logan's past was an uncomfortable subject, and one most avoided if they could possibly help it. It had taken more than one faux pas after arriving at the mansion before Hank realised this for himself.

Logan glared at Feral, unconsciously rubbing at the left side of his face where her claws had done the most damage. Hank could understand the sentiment, coming from him, but not condone it.

"She's injured and in need, Logan. Charles saw fit to give her a chance. You should too."

"Chuck wasn't outside last night. He didn't see what I saw." Logan was snappish, and his lip curled in the vestige of a snarl.

"True, but considering what Miss Feral's been through, I think we can grant her a little leeway concerning her behaviour. From what I hear, you've had days when you've gotten a bit… out of control, and nobody ever held it against you."

Logan snorted and folded his arms. From his stance alone, it was clear he wasn't interested in listening to reason. Hank sighed inwardly, pausing in his chore. "Is there something else I can do for you? Not to sound rude, but I've had people in and out of the Infirmary all morning, and I'd _really_ like to get on with treating Miss Feral, now."

Another snort. "Nah, nuthin' else, Poindexter. I'm gonna go look how this little hellcat got into the frikkin' grounds in the first place. Make sure it don't happen again." Logan shook his head. "No way she got over the wall, that much is sure. An' that only leaves the cliff or the western side. Take your pick."

"It's only my humble medical opinion, but I doubt she'd be strong enough in this condition to scale a two hundred foot sheer cliff face."

"Western side it is, then." He made as if to go, but Hank held him back.

"Logan, please, listen to me for a second. Don't make this any more difficult than it already is. I understand that Feral wounded your pride last night, and I don't blame you for being suspicious, given her rather… unorthodox arrival. But still, for the students' sakes, at least try to be civil about this whole thing."

Logan looked at him hard, and Hank read the scrutiny in his eyes. "You're talkin' about Sparky, ain't ya?"

"Partly. But I'm also talking about Charles. He has enough on his plate just keeping this place up and running without you – or any of us – causing more problems than strictly necessary."

Another hard stare. "I'm just lookin' out for the kids, McCoy."

"So am I - their physical _and_ their mental welfare. Think about how your distrust of Feral will reflect onto Mr. Crisp. He'll think her past as a Morlock has caused a proclivity for you not to like her, and how will that affect his mental state?"

Logan removed Hank's restraining hand. "I think you're lookin' too deep into it, McCoy. But I can see your point. Okay, so I won't make a big deal out of nuthin', but that don't change my feelings about it. I still don't trust her. Not yet, at any rate," he added, catching the warning look in Hank's eyes.

Hank bobbed his head knuckled back to his charge. "Thank you, Logan. As I said before, you never cease to surprise me."

Logan sniffed and rammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, since his jacket had hit the trash that morning. He didn't like showing weakness, and in Logan's book, consenting to keeping his mistrust in check was doing just that.

Hank couldn't help but smile at the parting comment.

"Feh. Bunch of tree huggin' hippie crap."

* * *

Logan stalked across the foyer and out the glass doors. Despite everything, the huge panes were still intact, and he took a moment to marvel at the fact. He'd had words with Charles in the past about these damn things, about how they were utterly useless from a defensive point of view. Charles had replied that he didn't want the Institute looking like a fortress, even if it was built like one beneath the surface, and Logan had been forced to concede the point in favour of another couple of guns inside the stone lions over the front gates.

The squeak of those gates and the hum of an engine brought him back to reality. He turned to see the sleek black shape of the X-Van purr up the driveway, Ororo at the wheel. She waved, knowing she had his attention. Logan, as usual, didn't wave back, but descended the steps as she drew to a halt.

"Logan," she said by way of greeting, not cutting the motor but letting it drone in the background.

He nodded. "'Ro. Been for a spin, I see."

"The way this thing eats gas? I hardly think so. No, I was just delivering Ray to the educational authorities and his note to the school office." Ororo rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I despair at that school. From what I could see, their admin and filing system are appalling."

Another nod. "He okay?"

Ororo seemed surprised at the question, not so much because it was so curt, but rather because it openly asked after the well being of one of the students. "Careful, Logan," she warned. "People will think you're going soft."

_SNIKT_

"No they won't." Logan ran a bare palm over the gleaming adamantium of his claws.

"Point." Ororo sighed, and suddenly her face looked a lot more strained, like her cheery mask was slipping.

Logan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He knew that song.

"Why do you want to know about Ray? From what I've seen of your training sessions, he's hardly your best student, and you're hardly his favourite teacher."

"I've seen survivor guilt before, darlin'. Sometimes it does funny things to a body. Kid's awful young to be dealin' with that kind of crap."

"Scott did it. So did Alex."

"Ever think that might have sumthin' to do with the whole fiasco up on Asteroid M? Guilt festers, 'Ro. It don't go away so easy, an' it can make a body crazy." He spoke with a voice of one in the know, and Ororo thought it wise not to ask just how he knew such psychological things. After all, Logan himself admitted he'd fought in WWII, and if _that _didn't stir up a batch of survivor guilt, not to mention his mutant abilities, then nothing would.

She let out a breath. "Ray was very quiet the whole journey. Barely spoke two words, even when I took him to register in the office. He seemed very distracted, but since I figured I knew the cause, I didn't press him about it." She cut Logan a sidelong glance. "There. That make you happy."

"Not in the slightest, darlin'." He jammed a matchstick between his teeth before stalking off towards the western perimeter.

Ororo watched him go. Then she shoved the van into gear, veering towards the garage in silence.

* * *

Ray followed Dorothy, the school secretary, down the hall with a sullen slump to his shoulders. He glared solidly at the floor, killing all conversation before she had chance to start it. Once or twice she looked at him with the Kindly Smile she'd been taught in secretarial college, but his ferociously neutral face stopped her tongue dead in its tracks, and she ended up delivering him to his classroom with more than a little relief.

A creak of the door, and fifteen-plus faces looked up, broken from the reverie that was biology class.

"Mrs. Haley?" Dorothy asked, like she didn't meet the labcoated woman at the chalkboard in the faculty lounge every day.

Mrs. Haley was a short woman, stocky under her perpetual white labcoat, with quick dark eyes and a frothy brown hairdo she'd had styled during the eighties and never changed. She raised an eyebrow at Dorothy and the student behind her. "Returning one of my flock, I see, Dorothy. Mr. Crisp? I trust you have an explanation for your tardiness."

Ray's lip jutted out a further few inches. Had he stared any harder at the floor the tiles would have melted. Dorothy came to his defence, handing over the note delivered with him that morning.

Mrs. Haley's eyes scanned the page. When she looked at Ray again, her eyes had changed. No longer quite so sardonic, they were tinged with sympathy and an edge of guilt – no doubt at her flippant tone.

Ray scowled, knowing what the note had said. He hadn't read it, since the thing had never actually come into his possession other than to see Ororo hand it over the desk in the office, but he knew well enough what it would have printed on it in the Professor's neat script. Some story about him losing a family member and so being allowed some leeway as far as negative behaviour went, or some such emotive crap. Probably short and to the point, stating the bare facts and not much else. Telepathy meant the Professor sometimes forgot things had to be communicated in slightly longer form than his thoughts were wont to be, and resulted in stunted letters with lots of gaps for idle minds and the gossip chain to fill in. By lunch, the whole school would know about his 'loss', as well as whatever else the elite gossipers chose to add in whilst bored in class or waiting in the cafeteria queue.

And that meant more pity for him.

He went to his seat without being told to, slumping down with folded arms, not bothering to retrieve pencil case or paper from the spare backpack Rahne had lent him. It was the only one he had been able to scrounge by the time he realised his old one was still out of commission, and he'd traipsed the halls, hoping nobody would see the smiling Trolls emblazoned on it.

He half considered putting his feet up on the table, testing how far this 'negative behaviour' guff would let him go. He thought better of it. There was no reason, but the idea of causing a bit of wanton mayhem seemed mightily appealing. De-stressing was his forte, natch. That special DR program Logan coded in for him spoke for itself.

School, however, was nothing like the Danger Room. He settled back in his chair, eyeing the two women, as if daring them to speak. Dorothy and Mrs. Haley exchanged a look, before not-so-subtly edging out of the classroom.

"Read pages fifteen to twenty until I get back, class."

_Gossip, gossip, gossip, _Ray thought, scrunching up as the door closed and a multitude of eyes switched from it to him. They all mirrored the same hungriness for information, but also a little trepidation at his expression. His temper was known throughout the halls of BHS, even if only by rumour. Nobody seemed brave enough to ask what was going on, despite wanting to. _Gossip, gossip, gossip. Well, you can all get on with it without my help._

Stoically, he set his jaw and averted his eyes. He radiated reticence. People exchanged looks over his head like the one passed between Mrs. Haley and Dorothy. This would be fodder for later conversations, to be chewed on and mulled over until their version of the facts had come to fruition.

Trying to ignore them, Ray shifted his gaze to the window. Sat in the middle of a row, it meant he had to look across a line of desks to achieve the glass. The girl sitting opposite gazed at him openly. She was a small, fluffy thing, all primped hair, high fashion and blank stare. Her name escaped him, as it did with most of her kind. He grunted, staring at a point just above her head until her cheeks flushed beneath the lashings of concealer and other make-up he knew not the purpose of. The technique was one he'd perfected long ago, knowing it unnerved people into looking away and opening themselves up to attack.

Just another one of the small things he'd picked up in the sewers, along with a thousand other survival techniques he sometimes didn't even realise he used on a daily basis. Many had been forgotten with his return to the sun, but some had been so ingrained over those six months that he barely recognised them as real techniques, instead subconsciously viewing them as more an extension of his own psyche - always there, ready and waiting for as long as he could remember.

Strange, how a few hours of madness could make a person question so much about themselves, he mused, watching the riveting sight of the janitor emptying the trash across the forecourt. If Feral hadn't turned up out if the blue, he probably would have just treated this day like any other. Go to school, complain profusely about anything and everything he could, go home, et al. As he'd told Tabby yesterday, self-analysis was not his forte.

That said, he seemed to be doing an awful lot of it lately.

The janitor whistled, some tuneless melody, lost to the glass window. Ray watched intently, eager to focus on anything but the hum of nervous chatter. He could literally _feel_ his classmates' gazes lingering on him, burning his skin with their gaping curiosity. He resisted the urge to either shiver or scratch. For once, he actually wished one of his teammates shared this class, if only to alleviate the feeling of isolation. Nobody here knew the truth. Seeds of rumour were all that circled. He wasn't going to tell them the truth, either. He couldn't, for far too many reasons.

It made for a lonely kind of school-life.

But this, all this, was what he'd claimed when he left the tunnels, right? The petty lies, the tittle-tattle and gossip of high school. The small-mindedness of people, not just teenagers. Upworld was filled with it.

But then again, so had the sewers. It was one of the few things they shared.

As _had_ been the sewers.

He'd known this was what life up here in the light entailed. He'd experienced it before, when he was 'normal'. Before his mutant gene leaped out and took a rather large bite from his rather small world. He'd known the pitfalls as well as the good stuff, and he'd taken it up anyway. For a world full of daylight, Upworld had a lot of shadowy parts. So no matter what happened, no matter what fortune hucked up and spat at his feet, this was the life he was determined to lead.

He just wished he still didn't feel so guilty about it.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

* * *

_Those keen-eyed amongst you may notice that there are two chapter eights - this one, and last time. Yeah. I miscalculated and jumped the gun a bit. Arse. _

**Review Replies**

**Katatonia** - You know, I appreciate reviews like yours so very much. It's always nice when people say they like what you're doing, but when they prove they've actually read a fic by pinpointing what, exactly, they liked about it... Just know that I'm grinning.

**Angel of the Fallen Stars** - Scott's car is the Holy Grail - you can look longingly, but you can never actually touch it. Which doesn't mean Kurt wouldn't try. Possibly with Bobby's help. Can't you just imagine them driving pellmell out of the gate, Scott shrieking behind them? Cue shivers of geeky!Scribbler joy.

**Ivan Alias** - Eyeball jelly. Nice. Quite good on toast, I hear. I think I should have a branch in front of my face and be approaching a castle, after that quote. Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble...

**LanceIsHot** - Ray is rapidly approaching FUITH. Yessum. Which is possibly why I love him so.


	10. Secrets Upon Secrets Upon Lies

----

**Chapter ­­­­Nine: _Secrets Upon Secrets Upon Lies_**

----

Hank moved with surprising grace through the Infirmary, clipboard tucked under one arm and glasses perched once more atop his head. He didn't really need them so much as he used to – his advanced mutation had the pyrrhic upshot of enhancing his sight – but it was a comfort to wear them anyway. He supposed, if he tried psychoanalysing himself, he was trying to maintain part of his – for want of a better word – humanity. He was certain there was a scientific name for such kinds of syndrome, but he wasn't so concerned about the matter to go look it up.

Pausing, he snagged another roll of gauze from the cupboard and went back to Feral's bedside, unwrapping it as he went. His hands smelled strongly of disinfectant, and he wrinkled his nose, glad his mutation hadn't altered his sense of smell to such a degree as, say, Logan's. There were some things that didn't need to be any more pungent.

"Now then," Hank announced to his patient, settling down on a stool and checking her IV was secure, before unpeeling the last set of bandages to apply the fresh set. "This shouldn't take long. I'm dreadfully sorry I forgot to fetch this before. I must be going senile in my old age. They do say the memory is the first thing to go…"

His words trailed off, and he peered closer at the shaven area beneath the old gauze. Blinking, he absently flipped the needless spectacles down over his eyes and squinted.

"Well…"

The puncture wounds caused by Logan the night before were a good deal smaller than they had been when he first wrapped them. The change probably would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but Hank could see quite clearly that they had shrunk. It was not a dramatic difference, but it made him give pause. It was almost as if the skin on either side of the wounds were pulling, slowly, back together…

"Now this _is_ unexpected," he murmured, laying the gauze aside to lift the arm and inspect it closer.

Such was his absorption with this new development that he barely registered the slightly speeded up beeping of the monitor. Neither did he notice when one yellow eye slitted open, blinked once, and refocused uneasily on him.

----

Logan trawled through the undergrowth, nudging aside bushes and foliage, as he made his way to the spot where he'd encountered Feral the night before. The grounds were still wet in many places, cheery sunshine not yet reaching into the deeper shadows to warm and dry them. He grunted absently at the water sloshing over his boots, soaking the ankles of his pants. It was an inconvenience more than a real hindrance, but still, he kept up an unintelligible litany until he arrived.

He was _fairly_ certain this was where they'd tussled. A sniff of the air brought back nothing more than washed out soil; a clean, wholesome smell, but not the one he was looking for.

He moved off towards the Western perimeter, searching the ground with his eyes for any signs of something incongruous, something that might give him a hint as to how they had been… invaded.

The earth gave up nothing. It seemed almost to mock him, and when he finally reached the outer limits of the Institute he had graduated from grumbling to growling softly, like a dog stretched to the full length of its chain with a burglar only inches further away from its nose. The grounds were vast and spacious, designed as they had been for large families who rarely ventured out into the world beyond their walls. Simple though the task of searching just one perimeter may have sounded in theory, it was a lot more arduous in reality.

Resigned to his task, Logan began systematically tracing the length of the wall. It was tall – thickset and sturdy – and he had to admire the architect that had designed it. In another, far distant time, it would have been a formidable barrier. Now, with a few augmentations and handy dandy hidden lasers, it was living up to its purpose once again in a more modern era.

On this side, copses of trees grew at intermittent points. They varied in density, ranging from two saplings strung together with string to stop them falling over – how on earth had they survived the previous night's thunderstorm? – to virtually impenetrable undergrowth, replete with snarls of bramble and other prickly bushes.

He was fighting his way through one of these when he happened across something that made him stop. A vague, half-there whiff of something. Something… off. Incompatible. Out of place…

Tilting his head slightly, Logan scented the air. It was permanently dank in here, the result of little sunlight and lots of closed space. Though not especially big, the thicket still managed to have all the solidity of a brick, what with the pressed together tree trunks and knotted jumble of scrub. It had almost created its own little world, completely separate from the rest of the grounds. The climate within was strangely warm and humid, and the heady smell of peeling bark overpowered almost everything else.

Almost.

_Howdy doody, _Logan thought dimly, turning his head. _Now what do we have here?_

He recognised Feral's scent instantly. She smelled wild, untamed, and her trail was infused with the unmistakable stink of trash and bilge water. He'd noticed it in the Infirmary, and wondered why nobody else commented. Manners, most probably. Still, the foul stench made for a good signpost.

He tracked it, refraining from crouching down and pressing his nose to the ground – not least of all because the brambles would have shredded his face. Healing factor was all well and good, but it didn't stop him feeling pain, and he didn't go out of his way to indulge in it. Masochist he was not. Thus it was that he moved slowly, forcing his way with careful steps, until finally giving up and slicing a path.

When he reached the wall, he was assaulted with another foreign scent that obviously didn't belong. It hid beneath Feral's overriding stink, but from his sensitive nose there was no hiding. He smelled… strawberries? And something not unlike Half-Pint's perfume – that expensive one her folks had sent her last birthday. His senses poked and pried it out, following until –

The brambles were wrong. His lower brain interrupted quite suddenly with this observation. They weren't supposed to grow that way. Logan squinted, reaching out with the backs of unsheathed claws to move them aside.

What was revealed beneath made his jaw set and a growl bubble in his throat.

The plants, growing unchecked for so many years, had made a sizeable hole in the wall. Old, dislodged bricks lay scattered about, half-submerged in spikes, thorns and what little grass could grow there. This in itself should not have been any bother. The brambles should have choked the opening, making it as impassable as the rest of the masonry.

Except that they had been carefully tied back, making a sort of narrow tunnel, just wide enough for a body to pass through if crouching. It was almost like something out of _Alice in Wonderland_, save for the shreds of thick fabric and twine applied here and there.

Logan bent forward and sniffed, just to make sure. The perfumey tang didn't abate. Neither did the vaguely oily smell that accompanied it, and the half-formed suspicion in his mind took proper root.

'_M gonna frikkin' kill 'em…_

----

Ororo heard the screeching as soon as she stepped out of the elevator, and immediately broke into a run. The shiny, silver-grey corridor blurred past unregistered, her sandals flip-flopping noisily against the metal of the lower halls.

It sounded like a banshee. A very angry banshee, intent on wailing the walls to dust.

As she turned a corner, she began to make out the sounds of things smashing alongside the screaming, and the thump of heavy objects hitting the floor.

What on earth was going on down here? Her brow creased in instant worry when she noted where the sounds were coming from, and she doubled her pace, almost falling over in her inappropriate footwear. Though sandals were comfortable for a more sedate speed, sprinting pell-mell through the bowels of the Institute wasn't something they were designed for.

She turned a quick right at an intersection, avoiding the hall leading to the Danger Room in favour of a path to the Infirmary. Rounding another corner, she then braked hard and simply stood.

Hank seemed to be propping up the door, as evidenced by the way his knees were locked and feet splayed, finger-like toes spread to give greater leverage. His back was ramrod straight, pressed against the metal with flat palms and elbows. His hair was mussed. His glasses, usually a feature of the crown of his head, were skewed to one side, half hanging off one ear.

Ororo took a step forward, and then winced at the sound of something substantial slamming against the other side of the door. "Hank?"

He looked up, and she saw with some alarm that one cheek was dribbling blood from four shallow scratches. It matted into his fur, turning it a startling shade of purple, and tracked a line down his face.

"Ororo," he said calmly, as though telling her the predicted weather report for Southern California. His tone was so incongruous to his appearance that it made Ororo give pause.

Another heavy crash, this time accompanied by the jingle of breaking glass. Some distant part of her recounted what that could be, and envisioned the neat rows of liquid-filled beakers from the far side of the med-lab smashing to the floor. Her mind's eye filled with colourful spilled fluids, while the more logical element of her brain made a few key connections.

"Is that - ?"

"It seems my provisional dosage of sedative was a little awry. There were a few factors in motion that I wasn't aware of." Hank wiped at his cheek and glanced with something like surprise at the blood on his hand. He didn't appear to notice the half-moon of bite marks further down his sleeve.

Ororo raised an eyebrow, the action just happening to coincide with a particularly loud 'whump', like that of a chair being tossed around. A new lungful of screeches cleaved the air, caught somewhere between enraged cat and car-brake squeal. If there were words to it, then they were unintelligible.

"Just a little awry?"

"Your sarcasm is duly noted, if not especially appreciated." Hank grimaced, rubbing his palms as though it would do anything to make them clean, and startled as the door juddered behind him.

Unseen fists beat against the other side, escorted by a fretful yowl. Apparently, the one contained within didn't much like being cooped up, and proceeded to vent some more at the furniture and fittings. Noisily. Whatever her injuries, they weren't impeding Feral's ability to wreak havoc.

"Shall I fetch Charles?"

"No need. I've already informed him of the occurrence." Hank tapped at the side of his head. "He should be on his way down here at the moment to… speak with Miss Feral."

"Calm her down, you mean," Ororo translated, thinking of various telepathic methods that could be used to quiet someone. If she was to be treated properly for her injuries, then Feral needed to be of a state of mind whereby they could actually stand in the same room without her attacking them. Ororo had been hoping, as she knew Charles had, that Feral's disposition was a little more inclined to reason and accepting the hand of friendship than this.

"What exactly did you do to obtain this - " **_WHUMP!_ **" - kind of reaction?"

"Nothing." Hank sounded quite affronted. "I was changing her bandages, when suddenly she upped and attacked me without warning." A hand went back to his cheek, prodding the area around it experimentally. "I was actually trying to take care of her. The adage springs to mind about hands, food and biting."

Ororo nodded and joined him at the door. Together, they settled down to wait for the length of time it would take a wheelchair at its highest setting to travel the mansion's hallways.

----

"Rogue!"

Rogue turned, face breaking out into as wide as smile as it ever did. She paused, stepping out of the between-class rush to wait for her friend. One or two students gave her filthy looks for daring to block their path, but she studiously ignored them, well practised in the Aloof Stare.

"Phew, thanks," Risty said when she was close enough to speak without having to yell. Bending slightly at the waist, she braced a hand against one knee and panted a little. "Sorry, saw you from the other end of the corridor and had to run to catch up."

"No problem," Rogue drawled, shifting her backpack and leaning backwards against the handy row of lockers. She rested the crown of her scalp against the cool metal, and busied herself taking in the cracks across the ceiling.

"What class do you have next?" Risty asked, straightening and smoothing the longer side of her hair back into place. Not that it had ever been _out_ of place to begin with.

No matter what the situation, Risty Wilde somehow always managed to look perfectly coiffed and lacquered. Not for the first time, Rogue found herself admiring the odd haircut her only-friend-who-wasn't-also-a-teammate sported. Some people might think it peculiar or unsightly. She was more of the opinion that it was daring, and admired it as a consequence. Besides which, it dragged attention away from her own bi-coloured 'do – something for which she was eternally grateful after the endless 'Skunk Head' comments. The people around here really needed to buy themselves a thesaurus. To share.

"History, I think. At least, that's where I'm headin'."

Risty grinned; that mischievous half-grin she used when people-watching from lunch tables; the one that emphasised the perfectly straight line of her teeth. Rogue had long since come to the conclusion that they were caps, though Risty had never openly told her so. There was just no _way_ teeth could be that faultless on their own. Nature had some big thing against straight lines.

"I'm library-ing. Study period." Risty raised her bag, extracting a small book with its spine unbroken and shiny cover unsmeared by fingerprints – obviously new.

Rogue peered at the cover, whereon a semi-clad man and woman were wrapped up in an embrace, set against the backdrop of a choppy seascape. 'In the Heat of the Moment', proclaimed the title in big, bold, gold-etched lettering.

"That don't look like no textbook I've ever seen."

Risty pulled a face. "Well it wouldn't. Me, actually studying during a study period? Be serious, Rogue."

She pocketed the book in one of the volumous compartments of her pants – yet another facet of her look that would be considered hideous by most, but which Rogue found fascinating. Every time she looked, there seemed to be a new pocket in them, a new place to stash things and hide handy paperclips with which to pelt unknowing targets in class. True, the colour wasn't exactly inspiring – dirt-brown not being in the Top Ten of Rogue's favourite shades – but it hardly mattered. Somehow, Risty managed to pull it off without looking like she'd snaffled the outfit from a trashcan.

Rogue supposed that was why she had been drawn to Risty as a friend. Not that the whole proffered-hand thing hadn't helped, too, but it was nice to hang out with someone who really couldn't care less about how she looked or what other people thought of her. Somehow that was just something Rogue couldn't get with the other X-Men, though they would strenuously deny it if challenged. Simply put; they cared about how the world perceived them. Some more than others, granted, but all of them held a spark of self-consciousness.

Risty just didn't. Even the teachers failed to intimidate her, which was a feat in and of itself with some of the old battleaxes roaming the halls of BHS, waiting to clamp detention-manacles on unsuspecting kids. Nobody else had Risty's subtle gall – the kind that made people pause after speaking to her and wonder for several minutes afterward whether they'd just been insulted or complimented.

The object of her musings looked up, and Rogue startled at a poke in the ribs. For a second she panicked, but then relaxed at the feel of gauzy fabric against her skin. Safe again.

"You all right?" Risty asked, tipping her head to one side. "You seem pretty spacey this morning."

Rogue waved her away with one lazy hand. "Nah, I'm fine."

"Oh really? Then what was I just talking about?"

"Um…?" she offered feebly, unaware until that moment that Risty had continued talking, but was saved from answering by a sudden yawn pushing at the back of her throat. Covering her mouth, Rogue turned slightly to preserve decorum. Nobody had any desire to look at her glaring tonsils, as Irene had always taught her.

Risty folded her arms. "You look pretty bushed."

"Rough night."

Risty's expression at once became impish, and for a second it looked as though she might rub her hands together with glee. "Ooh, do tell."

"Risty!"

"What?" She spread her hands, face a picture of mock-innocence. "You're telling me you live with all those delectable boys up at that Institute place and it's never even crossed your mind?"

Rogue winced, but she was an expert at not showing such things. The notion had indeed crossed her mind. Several times. However, it had always come equipped with a hefty dose of reality, and she found herself looking with regret at the hand lowering from her face.

"Well, that's not a happy face." Risty pouted. For a second her lip jutted, until abruptly sucking back in to form an expression of guilt. Her eyes widened, and she touched her chin briefly with a forefinger. "Oh gosh," she said quickly, accent sharpening under the words. "I'm sorry, Rogue. I didn't mean to… I mean, I didn't think about… y'know…"

Rogue blinked, thrown. "Excuse me?"

"Well… you and Scott Summers. That's why your smile disappeared, right? I honestly forgot about, y'know…"

Ah. Rogue could feel blood rushing to her cheeks, even though it didn't show under her paler-than-pale skin. She still felt warm, however, and ducked her head to hide behind a curtain of hair. Hallway-talk was open house for eavesdroppers, and she had no desire for gossip about her unrequited semi-feelings for one Mr. Summers to get back to him. Or anyone else, for that matter. Risty only knew because she had some uncanny knack for reading situations and people. Had she been in charge of things, Rogue wasn't sure she would have told even her about such a detail.

"Rogue?" Risty bent and peered up at her, one hand snagging a locker door for support. "Are you angry with me?"

"Nah," Rogue replied honestly.

She wasn't mad at Risty. If anything, she was mad at the world. But it was the kind of anger that one lived with on a day-to-day basis, instead of venting. Quiet resentment, she supposed she should call it. She enjoyed her life; had it pretty good compared to some people. Roof over her head, three square meals a day, people that cared for her – even liked her upon occasion. Give her all that, and the skin thing was something she could deal with. Perhaps not well, and perhaps not candidly, but she could deal. There was no point in letting it rule her, after all – and gothic or not, continuous depression was not a nice pit to fall into.

Risty sighed. "I'll have you know that I feel pretty darn awful, now."

"Um, I'm sorry?"

"And you're apologising because…? Look, let's go out. After school. We can go… how do you say it - mall trawling?"

Rogue couldn't resist a smirk. Sometimes Risty's English-ness made for a few funnies. Her father was American, which granted her citizenship here in the States, but having lived most of her life in England there were a few lasting cultural differences – not least of which was slang. There were times when one girl was almost totally incomprehensible to the other, usually resulting in their dissolving into giggles and 'translating'.

"Crawling. Mall crawling," Rogue corrected, to which Risty waved a careless hand.

"Crawling, then. We can have a little shopping trip, girls only. No boys allowed." She stuck out her tongue. "Urgh, I sound like one of those annoying teenybopper door-hangs. So, what do you say?" Her grin was hopeful. Rogue felt herself weakening.

She really should go straight home, the more sensible part of her brain reasoned. After that whole business with Feral, the faculty at the Institute was sure to have some big speech planned for the moment they all trooped through the door.

Rogue was not especially close to any of the newer students, but the chat of the previous night had struck a nerve somewhere, and she felt the need to go and show support for a teammate. Solidarity, after all, was something the X-Men cultivated in the extreme, and even though her own tastes strayed more towards the life of a loner, she found herself liking the idea more and more the longer she stayed there.

Besides which, there were a few things she wouldn't mind finding out for herself, too. Like, what was the deal with this Feral chick, anyway? And where were they all supposed to go from here? As far as she was aware, Professor Xavier liked to recruit any and all mutants who were willing to join his little team of wannabe superheroes. It stood to reason that he would offer the same chance to Feral as he'd given to everyone else.

Except that none of them had broken into the grounds and tried to gut existing members of the team when they first arrived. Her own enrolment had been… unconventional – but even so. The whole thing in Alabama, and then that thing with Scott on the mountain had been a catalogue of mistakes – not all of which had been her fault. Mystique's spectre loomed large in her mind's eye. She hastily shook it away.

"Rogue?" Risty again, tone questioning this time.

Rogue took a breath, glancing around the hall. The crowds were fast emptying into classrooms, and she had yet to cross the building to her own destination. Someone brushed past at alarming speed, standing on her foot as he went. She yelped as several of her toes found their personal space very suddenly reduced.

"Hey, watch it!" Risty snapped. The boy took one look at her and scurried away. "Idiot," was the only label she threw after him. it wasn't her best, but the jagged underscore did its job. "I swear, this campus is populated by them."

"Tell me about it," Rogue couldn't resist sniping. Then she sighed. "I don't think I can make it after school, Risty. We kinda… got a little emergency at home."

"And people can't suffer it without you? Come on, girl – be a rebel! Or am I supposed to say something supportive and offer you a tissue?" Risty's face scrunched up. "For purposes of clarity, exactly what kind of emergency are we talking about? Tell me, did I once again place my size sevens halfway down my oesophagus?"

"Hardly. One of the guys had some bad news from… home last night. I think I'm expected to make an appearance. Y'know, play Miss Sniffle Shoulder?"

"And the task has fallen to you because you're just so dying to get mucus on your shirt."

"Y'all got such a way with words."

"Why thank you. I _was_ rather proud of that one." Risty exhaled loudly and folded her arms. "It's just a shame, is all. We never seem to do anything except _study_ anymore. I was quite looking forward to some, er, downtime."

Rogue took a moment to register the look on her friend's face. Risty's habitual smirk had fallen into an absent, droopy half-smile, her eyes drawn to the row of combination locks to her left.

It was true. Even when they met up out of school hours, they rarely did anything that wasn't in some way related to academia. The last party had been that misguided attempt at the mansion – the less said about that, the better – and as for shopping trips… well, Rogue didn't do closely-packed crowds very well.

Then again… Risty _did_ look kind of bummed…

"Aw, hell. Why not?"

Risty visibly brightened, grabbing one of Rogue's hands and pumping it up and down enthusiastically. Her disappointment vanished in an instant, and Rogue was left a little flustered at the sudden lack of blood below her elbow.

A whirlwind of purple tripped away down the hall. "Cool. I'll meet you after final bell. We can take my car, if nobody in the carpark's boxed me in. See you, Rogue."

"Uh, bye Risty?"

----

Ray was distracting himself by doodling on his desk. The pen had started out in the margin of his book, and gradually migrated across the paper, over the edge, and was now scribing nonsensical words on the wood.

_Juxtapose._

_Falling._

_Truth._

_If it's the last thing we ever do._

_Unison._

_We have taken control of your television._

_Fuck._

_Jiminy Cricket._

_Out of this world._

He wasn't really conscious of what he was doing. His thoughts were elsewhere entirely, so when a hand laid itself flat next to his he was both startled and flustered. The fact that he nearly fell out of his chair didn't help matters.

"Mr. Crisp," said a voice, and he looked up into the face of his history teacher, one hand immediately moving to cover the graffiti without any real thought as to what it said.

"Uh?" was the most intelligible response he could manage. It was greeted by barely-covered titters from around the room, which equalled only one thing in his mind. "Could you repeat the question?"

The teacher looked faintly disapproving, and gestured with one hand towards the door. Ray craned to look and saw Dorothy, the principal's secretary, standing half in the room. Her face was painted with a painfully cheerful expression, and in her hands was clasped a tightly folded piece of paper.

"It seems you've been summoned away, Mr. Crisp."

Nodding, Ray quickly gathered his things together, sweeping everything into the borrowed backpack in a single, fluid gesture – save for the pen, which found a place behind one ear. That done, he pattered from the room, falling into step behind Dorothy and closing the door behind him. In his wake the class restarted, at no disadvantage without him.

He was about to ask what was going on when Dorothy volunteered the information, unfolding the slightly grubby paper and handing it to him without breaking her stride. It was a small printed pass, signed and dated for today, which granted him immunity from truant officers.

"I just got a call from the Xavier Institute," she explained quickly, obviously in no hurry to engage in too much conversation with him. "It appears you're to return home as soon as possible to deal with a… visiting relative?" She sounded slightly unsure, or maybe testing the words to see the measure of truth of them.

Ray played along, simultaneously wondering what the hell was going on that he had to be summoned back to the mansion in the middle of the day. And after all the Professor had said about routines and dwelling, too. "Yeah, they're here for the… the funeral. They must be early, though. Weren't due to arrive until tomorrow."

"Ah." Dorothy sounded, if not convinced, then at least satisfied she wasn't partaking in anything untoward. Or illegal.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Turning a corner, Dorothy pushed open a set of double doors and they entered the foyer of the school office.

Sunlight streamed in through the large windows, highlighting pieces of dust dancing to their own rhythm in the force of the draught. In the corner of the dominating front desk, a small transistor radio was playing what sounded like Dean Martin. Strains of some nameless melody floated across the room to create a warm, ambient atmosphere. Completing the impression was a tall, leafy plant of which Ray did not know the name, but which draped over him when he sat in one of the hard-backed plastic chairs.

"The telephone call was rather abrupt," Dorothy admitted, and something in her tone made it sound like she somehow counted this as her fault. Ray blinked, wondering just how hard a taskmaster Principal Kelly was to his staff. "Apparently somebody will be along to collect you, so if you'll just stay here until they arrive…"

She trailed off, taking a last long glance at the only other occupant of the office, and then busied herself with something in a filing cabinet. It was coincidental, of course, that by doing so she turned away from him. Totally coincidental.

Ray settled down to wait for whomsoever had been sent to fetch him, resisting the urge to nervously chew the inside of his cheek. He was suspecting Ororo, and so was surprised when a short, burly figure in a cowboy hat stalked through the doors as though he owned the place.

"Here for the kid," Logan growled, not bothering to ding the handy bell, and startling Dorothy who, until that point, still hadn't turned back to face front. She jumped, whirled, and immediately muddled around with a few extraneous sheets of paper under his hard stare.

After a few seconds and inexplicably reddening cheeks, the secretary pushed a clipboard and ballpoint across the desk. Logan took up the pen and signed - one, twice, three times. Then he flipped over the paper and did it again to the sheet underneath.

By the time he'd finished with this overlong bit of administration, his face had darkened even more than usual. It was with a thin squeak that Dorothy directed him to take Ray and leave.

Logan didn't even spare the words, simply jerking a thumb and marching away, knowing the boy would follow. Some part of Ray was sure it should feel irked by that, but the rest of him overruled it, too eager for information to bother with such petty things as a snarky attitude.

"What's up?" he asked, as soon as they were in the parking lot.

No answer.

The X-Van loomed in a space clearly marked 'for faculty members only'. Logan signalled that Ray should get in the passenger side.

_**BIP BIP**_

The lights flashed briefly as the immobiliser disengaged, courtesy of Logan's key-chain, and the two slid into their respective sides, buckling up in silence and locking the doors out of habit. With a sputter and then a roar the engine came to life, noise sinking to a dull purr when Logan thrust the van into reverse and backed out of the bay. With nary a word, or even so much as a look in Ray's direction, he then shoved it into gear and drove out of the parking lot. Bumpity-bump over the recently tarmac-ed spot where the Brotherhood had elected to play the fools (again), and they were away.

They pulled into traffic immediately, and advanced at a crawl in just enough time for Ray to start feeling truly uncomfortable. Not difficult when his travelling companion was doing a bang up impersonation of a brick wall.

"So?" he prompted.

Logan said nothing.

"What's the big emergency?"

A grunt. "She woke up."

A frission of fear. Ray didn't need to be told who 'she' was; he could hear it in Logan's voice. He wet his lips, nervous in spite of himself. "She okay?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. The look Logan gave him made him wonder how successful his acting skills were.

"Prof gave orders to fetch you. Seems she ain't taken too kind to bein' where she is. And he's havin' problems doin' the mind-to-mind schtick," he added, almost as an afterthought. His expression remained inscrutable, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Something about his tone told Ray that that was all the information he was likely to get. He sank back into his not-uncomfortable seat, worrying a fingernail with his teeth.

Streets alternated between inching and sweeping by, depending on whether Logan was weaving in and out of lanes or following signals like a good little motorist. Yet they were little more than a smear of colour to Ray's jumbled thoughts, and when they finally passed through the gates of the Institute he blinked back into the real world with genuine surprise.

"Out," Logan said needlessly, pulling up in front of the glass frontage but keeping the engine running. "They're down by the Infirmary."

Ray didn't need to be told twice. He hopped out the door, halfway up the steps before Logan had even eased the clutch down again. Taking the mansion's plush hallways at a run, he impatiently rode the elevator down to the sublevels, where gleaming metal took the place of burnished wood panelling, and the overhead lights assumed a burn-off-the-back-of-your-retina brilliance. Once there, it was easy enough to locate where he needed to go. Not least because of all the violent shrieking.

Mr. McCoy – Ray still couldn't get used to calling him 'Hank' or 'Beast' – and Ororo were standing to one side of the narrow corridor. They flanked the Professor, who wore fingertips on his temples and an expression that each of the X-Men knew all too well. He was obviously extending his telepathy – probably to Feral, if Logan's terse words were anything to go by. Professor Xavier was not the kind of man to give up on something just because it seemed to be defeating him.

However, judging by the frenzied cries coming from behind the locked door of the med-lab, this particular situation was not going so well.

Ororo was the first to notice him jogging towards them. She immediately left her post to take two steps in his direction. Her face was caught somewhere between relieved and not-quite-hidden-pity, which made Ray fall back into his habitual scowl. He met her greeting with a short grunt.

If she were hurt or offended by this, then she didn't show it, and he was received into their little fold with a nod from both her and Mr. McCoy. He got another when the Professor finally broke off what he was doing with a small intake of breath.

"Ray?"

"'S my name, don't wear it out." Ray nodded at the door. "Mind telling me what the hell's going on?"

It was Mr. McCoy who answered – and with a question, no less. "Would you mind telling me why you never mentioned that Miss Feral possesses healing factor?"

That had Ray bouncing backwards. "She has healing factor? What, like Logan?"

"That answers that one, then." Mr. McCoy rubbed absently at a patch of gauze strapped to his cheek, no doubt applied from one of the numerous medical kits sequestered around the mansion, since the med-lad was a no go area. "Nothing quite so dramatic – or powerful – as Logan's, but from what I could tell before I was… evicted from the lab, she does in fact have a small amount of accelerated healing dynamic in her blood. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it allows her to heal marginally faster than a usual mutant, who in turn heals marginally faster than humans without the X-gene. The latter is a proven scientific fact, so the former would not be so much of a hypothetical step to take."

The implications of that one were vast. Ray goggled for a second, until a heavy thump on the door brought him back to the present. "So… what's that mean?"

"Not that she's related to Logan, before your thoughts stray down that path. Much like my appearance and young Master Wagner's, I'm more of the opinion that they simply share a mutational attribute – like two people having the same colour eyes. It doesn't necessarily mean they are related. But it _does_ support a recent theory I'd been noodling with concerning physical mutations and inherent accelerated healing - "

"Hank," Ororo laid a hand on his shoulder, "I think we should probably stay on the matter at hand."

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I was lecturing again, wasn't I? Well, simply put, this minor healing factor had the repercussion that the dosage of anaesthetic I applied was slightly… off beam, shall we say? She awoke before she was intended to do so, and I do believe that her surroundings, coupled with my own unfamiliar presence, served to agitate her into her current state."

"So she came around before she was supposed to and went nucking futs?" Ray summarised.

Professor Xavier flipped a switch on his wheelchair and swivelled to face him. He looked tired, not a little drained, and Ray had to wonder just what had happened here before he arrived. "Feral is distressed. So much so that any and all attempts to reach out to her and calm her down have been unsuccessful."

Ray's brain did a few quick calculations. "That why you sent Logan to come get me?"

"Your presence may be just the catalyst we need to quiet her. After all, it worked last night."

"Plus, it got him out of the way before he did something inappropriate," Mr. McCoy muttered, sotto voice.

The Professor gestured to the door. It was still as solid as ever after being rebuilt following Jean's power surge, but was now issuing several unhealthy noises, one of which sounded not unlike claws being raked over metal.

"So I'm just supposed to waltz in there and hope she recognises me again?" Understandably, Ray sounded a little worried at the concept. He knew Feral better than they did, and if she was in the throes of a rage… well, there was a reason behind the moniker Callisto had chosen for her.

"Partly. From what I can tell, Feral's mind is rather fragmented. I've dealt with such phenomenon before, usually after someone has suffered great trauma, but it does make things rather… difficult. Her thoughts are not easy to pin down, and she seems to have lost contact with rationality at present."

Mr. McCoy's cheeks darkened under his fur. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of times when he himself had lost contact with the more rational portions of his brain – and had several awkward confrontations with the local law enforcements as a result of them 'catching him at a bad time'.

Yet Ray wasn't watching the teacher, too caught up as he was in processing what he was being told. _Great trauma…_

"There's a distinct possibility that Feral won't recognise you straight away because of it," Xavier went on, "and frankly, I'm not willing to put anybody in jeopardy by exposing themselves to her in this condition. However, we run the risk of her doing herself some serious damage if we don't do _something_." He spiralled a hand at the wrist, expression thoughtful and edged with obvious frustration.

"So what exactly did you have in mind for me to do, if I can't go in and see her?"

"We had hoped the intercom in the med-lab would provide a way for her to hear your voice," Ororo confessed. "Unfortunately, it was destroyed while you were still en route."

Ray considered this. "I could always just shout through the door," he suggested after a moment.

Xavier laid his hands in his lap. "Actually, we were thinking of a more direct approach."

Ray was not stupid. Not by a long shot. Even so, it took a few seconds for him to cotton on to what the they were proposing. When he did, however, he exploded, "You want to go inside her _head_?!"

"Usually I wouldn't be in favour of such invasions of privacy, but she does need to be calmed, Ray." Xavier's eyes were deadpan, but his mouth quirked into a penitent line. "Alone, I have made little progress. As I said, her mind is rather fragmented at present. Whether because of her agitation or something else remains to be seen, but it _is_ possible that having you 'talk' to her would do the job."

Ray looked again to the door, stance uncertain.

"The only other option we have is Logan," Hank added manipulatively. "The tranquillisers are all locked away inside. But he did suggest a more immediate means of rendering her unconscious before we convinced him to go and fetch you from the school…"

"Bop her on the head with an adamantium fist, you mean." Ray sighed. "Okay then, but we don't go nowhere we're not supposed to in there, right?"

For a second, the Professor looked quite affronted. "I'm not in the habit of doing so, Ray, as I think I told you before."

"Just checking. So, uh… what the hell do I do? Just close my eyes and think happy thoughts, or do we need a little bit of pixie dust first?"

Xavier put his hands to his temples, and Ray heard the shush of fur as Mr. McCoy moved up beside him.

"Just… relax."

A thin beeping sounded, followed by the swish of metal. Ororo was at the controls for the med-lab doors. They slid open easily, despite everything they'd been through.

Feral, wild eyed and panting, was in the process of launching herself at the entrance. She pulled up short when it was suddenly removed. The abruptness with which she stopped said that, had anyone else been standing there, she might have barrelled straight through them. As it was, a single glance of Ray was all it took to curb her headlong flight.

She stared openly at him.

"Feral?" he tried. If he could get her to respond without any mind games mumbo jumbo, then he'd take any chance he could get. She didn't need to be fucked up any more than she was, he reasoned.

Feral didn't answer. Her brows knitted, and her gaze was unfocused, not lingering on him after the initial glance. A flicker of rage remained through her obvious confusion, as she swung her head from side to side, taking in the array of faces.

It ignited only seconds later when, with a howl, she shot forward, hands curled into talons and teeth bared. Ray stumbled backwards, surprised at the ferocity and swiftness of the attack. Surely she hadn't been that fast before…?

The world exploded with colour. It blossomed around his field of vision, and there was a flash not unlike lightning. Then darkness, suffocating where it should have filled his senses. Ray was aware of his body falling down, but also that he was watching it through another's eyes. The sensation was surreal, as was the feeling of leaving his own body and heading directly into another one.

The world tilted crazily, and then reformed into something else entirely. Ray was propelled speedily into it, and for a brief instant it felt as though his eyes had been gouged out and thrown ahead, without the rest of his body. When he ploughed into the… something, it was as though someone had stepped hard on the brake of the universe, and he yanked to a stop like a dog abruptly reaching the end of its leash.

_Ray_.

_Professor? What the fuck was _**that**

_I told you her mind was disjointed. Usually we would not have had such a uncomfortable passage, but the disorderly nature of her psyche made things tricky. I simply picked a chink and pushed us through it as fast as I could. At present we are… somewhere in her mind._

_Well that's specific_.

Ray was aware of a presence next to him, and though he could see nothing as such, somehow he knew it was the Professor. A kind of gentle, almost paternal warmth suffused the area, surrounding and guiding his own insubstantial self.

From what he'd learned of telepathy since arriving at the Institute, Ray could understand that he didn't have a body here, and so left the actual traversing of Feral's mind to the expert. He was satisfied with being nudged this way and that, so long as they did what they needed and got out as soon as possible. Feral's words of the previous night meant that he was in no hurry to see the Morlocks' fate through her memories. Had he a spine he might have shivered at the unwelcome prospect.

_What exactly do you call this place?_

When it came, Xavier's reply was distracted, like he was divided between two trains of thought. _There's no specific terminology, but I believe Jean calls this kind of visible internal world the 'MindScape'._

Feral's MindScape was bleak; a blackness that seemed to stretch on forever. It was eerie, and Ray found himself staring off into what passed for distance, looking for a horizon. There was none, of course, nor even a flicker of anything like one. Rolling swathes of shadow encased them utterly.

_This is kinda freaky._

_Indeed._

_So, um, what exactly are we looking for in here?_

_Her consciousness. _

There was no further explanation, and Ray fell into a semi-aware haze as they moved on, searching.

Gradually, the MindScape altered, shifting from matte to undulating clouds of black. Now and then these shades would shudder or move, and more than once they claimed Ray's attention with their sheer… oddness. There was no other word for it. He'd never seen anything quite like them before. They were like living organisms masquerading as mist, and seemed almost to pulsate, each to their own rhythm. One or two actually appeared to lighten when he and the Professor passed by, changing from black to grey and then fading away again, like half-remembered recollections absorbing back into a dream.

One in particular drew his interest. Flickering enigmatically, shreds of light filtered from it, and along with them came indistinct slivers of sound. Though he couldn't frown in puzzlement, Ray moved closer, not even questioning how he was able to do so without muscles.

Gradually, slowly, he recognised the hum. It was the echo of a scream, and as soon as the realisation arrived then the cloud reformed into a terrified, catlike face. It was spectral and blurry, but far, far too clear. Eyes wide as saucers, it opened its mouth in another desperate cry, and he saw the rows of needle-like teeth set in wiry grey fur. He seemed to be falling into the image, and it became clearer the further he went, wrapping itself around his wits and pulling him in…

_Thornn…?_

A sort-of growl from the periphery, and the clouds turned a deep, angry red – the colour of winterberries and blood. Something pushed against Ray, forcibly shoving him away from the image, and he felt himself slipping, splintering under it.

_Ray!_

Ray snapped back to himself, disoriented and momentarily confused. At once, the professor's protective aura was around him, reassembling his thoughts into a more coherent whole from where they had scattered.

_What the f - _

_You strayed from the safer path_, Xavier 'said', tone a mixture of reprimanding and concerned. _I told you before that Feral's mind is uneven. There are dangers here that are inconceivable in the physical world – only a few of which non-telepaths have been introduced to. Stick close to me, or something more serious might happen._

_I think… no, I know … I saw her sister_, Ray replied dazedly. _I think… I think Feral may have seen her die…_

_That would certainly support my conjecture of outside trauma being the cause of this distress. But come now, we must hurry. And stay away from anything else you see. A MindScape is no place to indulge in curiosity._

_Savvy that_.

They moved off, and though time didn't seem to exist in this most surreal of places, it was only a short while later that Xavier called a halt.

Something palpitated in front of them, throbbing so rhythmically as to put any metronome to shame. Its shape was like that of any cloud they'd seen so far, but its colouring shifted constantly, guttering from one hue to another in quick succession. It made no noise, but there was an impression of almost tangible menace that enveloped both it, and the area immediately around it.

Then it moaned softly. A very clear, very decipherable moan; like a creature in pain.

_This it?_

_It is._

_So… what do we do now?_

The Xavier presence drew back. Ray felt his own motioned forward. _This is where you step up. I can do little now, save provide a lifeline for you should you need one. You must try to make contact with the persona you know as Feral, Ray. I'm hoping that will be enough to - for want of a better phrase - reunite her with her rationality. However, if anything happens… I'll know._

Ray felt reassured. Not by much, granted; but just knowing that the most powerful telepath in the world had your back was a comforting notion.

And then, just as abruptly as he had entered this world of telepaths and psychics, he found himself crossing the threshold into something… indefinable.

There were no longer any sights or sounds or anything even vaguely like them. There was only intangible thought, emotion – sensation that was too formless to be named. It swirled around him, choking him, and for a second he felt as though he would be totally clogged by it all… until the sharp twang of Xavier's lifeline brought him back to himself.

Ray refocused, calling on every scrap of training he could remember. For someone whose exposure to telepathy had been Jean's lessons on shielding and a few sessions in the DR so as to recognise when an enemy was probing your mind, Ray considered himself to be doing pretty damn well, so far.

So far.

Suddenly, anger flooded the area around him. After a moment of getting his bearings, Ray concentrated on what he thought was the core of the stuff. Without direction, he went towards it, flowing as quickly as it took to have the idea of doing so. No laws of physics governed him. The effect was liberating.

Even so, he reeled back when smacked away.

_Feral? _More of a feeling than a conscious thought, it was answered nonetheless.

**Go away**, the roil of assorted emotion seemed to say. Something shifted in the core of anger; something more solid and manifest. It bristled, prickling him furiously for being there.

Then all at once it stopped, and Ray felt it become questioning – curious, almost. It prodded at his presence, turning him over and examining him in great detail. For his part, Ray let it, not sure what else he could do.

After a long moment, thin recognition permeated the all-encompassing anger.

_Hothead?_ This time the thought was deliberate, constructed and fed into his mind as best the persona knew how.

Ray took the plunge. _Feral, it's me, Ray.­_

Denial; disorderly and abstract. _No. Hothead dead. You dead._

_I'm not dead_, he replied, wishing he knew what the hell he was doing. _Remember last night? You came to find me. How can I be dead if I was still there to be found?_

_Ghost. Not meant be in here, in head_, the voice persisted, words clunky and syntax virtually nonexistent. It was almost like talking to a child that was just learning how to speak. _How you do?­_

_I have… a friend_, Ray said carefully. _He wants to help you. He's a mutant, like us_.

_Mutant… Bad word. Make pain. No speak. You no speak no more. Go 'way_.

Another roil of force, pushing him backwards. Ray resisted it as best he knew how, impatience rising. Feral had never been especially easy to talk to, he remembered. Her suspicious and cagey nature had made her unapproachable amongst the Morlocks, and he recalled now how he had sometimes entirely avoided contact with her because of it.

Still, there was nobody else to help her now…

_Feral! Feral, you're running low on options, here. Let us help you. Don't be a fucking idiot!_

The persona gave pause. Then a small grain of something reached his thoughts, brushing over them lightly. To his surprise, it was humour. _Speaky speak like Hothead. Fucking this, fucking that – damn, crap, bastard! Ghost know what saying. Good fooler._

_I'm not a ghost. Feral, you have to… to… _To what? Calm down? In here, she was at least lucid, if swaddled in anger. Ray searched for the best words to implement Xavier's plan. _You have to take control. You're in a safe place, now, with good people. You gotta let them help you._

_No!­ Upworlders no friends – hurt!_

_Feral, listen to me. The Morlocks are gone, right? You need someone to help you. They wanna do that. They took care of _**me **_all this time._

A pause. _You… really not dead? Been with them all time? Been sun-child?_

Ouch. Okay, maybe bringing up his departure like that hadn't been the best course of action, but it had got her talking, at least – maybe even accepting his offer. Ray hoped that, in light of Sevarius et al, Feral would be more accommodating of his own brief, turbulent past with the Morlocks.

_Yeah. Yeah, they've been helping me deal with my powers – teaching me how to control them, y'know? They've helped me a lot. They can help you, too._

The persona writhed vaguely. _Help… Fur-kin shout that. She so loud, make ears hurt. Screaming… she hurt bad… so bad… But won't stop. _**Can't**_ make stop._

Fur-kin. That was the name Feral and Thornn used for each other, as a sort of joke after their habit of nicknaming everyone else. That was how Ray had ended up being known mainly as 'Hothead' instead of Berzerker, despite that being the moniker Callisto chose for him when he first joined her tribe.

_Feral…_

_Morlocks gone. No place left there. Hadda run, get 'way 'fore they catch and make scream like Fur-kin. Hothead… not chase? Friends not hurt like bad ones?_

'_Course not. That's why they're friends – because they don't hurt people. They _**help **_them._

_Help… me?­ Scratty, batty, mouldy hairball?_

_If you let them._

There was a moment, during which the core of anger, while no less fierce, seemed to turn in on itself. Ray felt a sort-of gaze on him, and then a tenuous touch of mind on mind. Feral's thoughts were unchecked and muddled, and the thread of confusion ran constant; but they were also hopeful, and he homed in on that hope.

_Want help. Don't wanna run no more._

The lifeline to Xavier pulled taut, and in a flash Ray fell back into his own head.

He gasped, drawing air into his tight chest whilst simultaneously marvelling that he once again had lungs and mouth to do so. So abrupt was the transfer that for a second he simply sagged further backwards into what was propping his already slumped body.

It took another few moments for his jumbled brain to recognise Mr. McCoy's arms around him, stopping his skull from making sharp contact with the floor.

Prising his eyes open, Ray blinked out at the world, which mainly comprised of a large blue face. Concern etched Mr. McCoy's features, but relaxed when Ray slurred; "Kin' 'ell… whadda ride…"

"I see you haven't lost your alliterative skills because of it. A good sign."

"Mmph… feel like I was just pulled through a knothole backwards." Testing his muscles, which were curiously sore from the odd position he'd left them in when he vacated the premises, Ray tried to stand up properly. His feet, however, had other ideas. They flatly refused to cooperate until blood-flow had been restored. "Fuck - "

"I've got you," Mr. McCoy said soothingly. He looked up, and said to someone just out of Ray's field of vision, "Are you all right?"

"A little worse for wear, but ultimately fine," the Professor's voice replied. Ray craned his neck, and saw him sitting slightly askew in his wheelchair, rubbing at the back of his neck. Resting at the base of one wheel was the pen formerly sat behind Ray's own ear.

"Feral…?"

Ororo was cradling her several feet away, just inside the door of the Infirmary. Feral's face was a little haunted, but less savage than it had been as she shook off the last vestiges of telepathic intervention. And though she struggled out of the woman's grasp as soon as she could, there was no accompanying rage. Instead, she darted to Ray's side and hung onto his arm, watching Mr. McCoy apprehensively.

"Hothead okay?"

"'M fine," he said, forcing himself upright. "Professor, how the hell do you go through that every time without hurling?"

"Well, for one, that sort of experience isn't usual. And for another," a small smile quirked Xavier's lips, "I've been teleported by Kurt. After that, I have a very strong stomach."

----

_To Be Continued…_

----

**Review Responses:**

**Angel of the Fallen Stars **– If I wasn't telling you something, would I tell you that I'm not telling you something? ;)

**Katatonia **– FUITH Fucked Up In The Head. Just so you know.

**Ivan Alias **– Ah. Sorry. The 'out vile jelly' got confused in my head with 'out, damn spot'.

**Todd Fan** – Know the feeling. Hating my 'multiple roles of women' essay at the moment. Hope yours went/are going better than mine.

**The Gothic Kleptomaniac** – Ray fan! One more of us! Yay! I have to confess, I do love getting feedback about my fanfic. Though I draw the line at stalking, so I'm not soooo bad. And yes, I feel squiggly and special, now.

**LanceIsHot **– See answer for Katatonia. Sam is… wandering. I don't know. He may feed in, he may not. I haven't decided yet.

**Rushikayu13**** –** Killjoy gave him a textbook. I was subjected to Austen from GCSE (when I was fifteen) and I've studied Pride and Prejudice four. Bloody. Times. Rar. So Sam gets to share my pain.

**Madleinx **– I take my lessons writing Scott from InterNutter and Minisinoo. But Min is a movieverse writer, so tempering has to occur. Yessum. But yes, go and read them, they're far better than me. Ooh, and Julia 456, too. Her Evo!Scott is wonderful.


	11. Turning Pages, Turning Points, Turning W...

* * *

**Chapter Ten: _Turning Pages, Turning Points, Turning Words_**

* * *

Tabby waited until lunch before striking. Her target wasn't decided until he walked past, when she grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him backwards to stand beside her.

A few choking noises and cry of "The car's fine, I swear!" later, she had his full attention.

"Hey, Blue."

"Tabitha?" Kurt rubbed at the back of his neck, imperceptibly running a hand over his image inducer to check that it was okay.

She noticed, but didn't comment, instead choosing to ram her hands back into her pockets and raise one leg, laying her left foot flat against the lockers in such a manner as had gained her several past dates. It was a coy look; a combination of sexy and playful that she'd had perfected long before bombing in at Bayville High.

For a moment, it looked as though Kurt was going to make a break for it. Then he sighed, taking up a post next to her and folding his arms. "So what's with nearly taking my head off? The art of speaking to get a person's attention dead?"

"May as well be. Besides, I didn't wanna risk choking on my gum by shouting." To emphasise, she snapped a large bubble that somehow missed her cheek and drooped from her lips like a flaccid pink tongue.

"And is there a reason you're stopping me from getting my lunch? Or is this a freebie?"

Tabby held up a finger, replaced the gum in her mouth, and said simply, "Ray."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, not quite nonplussed, but doing a fair impression. That cemented Tabby's suspicions, as did the pseudo-casual, "What about him?"

"I've been hearing some pretty interesting rumours. Thought you could give me the heads up on what's going on. Y'know, an insider's viewpoint."

"Nothing's going on."

"Uh-uh." She didn't muster much in the way of conviction. "That's why I saw 'ol Badger picking him up outside school this morning? Chem. class," she explained at Kurt's inquiring look. "The lab's on the ground floor, right near the parking lot, and I sit by the window. Logan looked pretty pissed. Had a face that could sour milk." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "Well, more milk than usual. We're talking a whole tanker. So, what's the haps? I'm having the feeling it has something to do with why I saw Scooter-boy hobbling around on crutches, earlier…"

Kurt glanced around at the milling crowd. Tabby took the time to pop another bubble before he said, "All right. But can we talk somewhere more… private? I doubt Ray would like his life discussed in a public forum."

"Nah, that's what the Internet's for."

Kurt's frown made her pause, as did the slightly reproachful look in his eyes.

"Jeez, serious much?"

He looked around and gestured at a nearby door, grabbing her wrist with fingers permanently stuck like a Vulcan-greeting. "In here."

Tabby hung back and, despite herself, cracked a wry grin. "Uh, Blue, I highly doubt disappearing into the janitor's closet with me is gonna do wonders for your rep. Especially with Amanda."

"Huh? Oh, uh, jawohl. You could be right about that." His hologram blushed, and not for the first time she wondered how it knew to that at the correct moment. Then she filed the thought away under 'unsolved mysteries', along with how Lance always managed to find money for gas, and how exactly the extraordinary nano-techno-fabric of Evan's unique uniform worked.

She nodded, popping another bulgy pink bubble. "If you don't mind straying into enemy territory, I know a place we can go."

"Why do I already get the feeling I'm not going to like it?"

"Because you're a stuffed shirt. C'mon."

Swivelling her hand and turning Kurt's own grip against him, Tabby yanked him unceremoniously along the row of lockers. Several people looked their way as they strode and stumbled past, but such peculiar behaviour was pretty much the norm for her, so they looked away again just as quickly. Tabby was the school curiosity. Few people paid her any heed unless she was physically affecting them – or their property.

For an extrovert like Tabby, this was a double-edged sword. The facets of her personality took it in turns to revolt and demand more attention than she was being given, or else shut up and take advantage of it.

Right now the latter was in play. Taking momentary shelter in the lee of the row, Tabby cast quickly about. Two kids were heading towards the spot from the opposite direction, but by her estimation, ETA wouldn't be for another couple of seconds. Plenty of time.

"Right. Quick, 'port us to outside the science block. The side away from the street."

For a moment, Kurt just looked aghast. "Smokers' Country? Are you insane? I like having a spleen!."

"Time is of the essence, Fuzzy. Nobody'll be there yet, anyhow."

Chatter approached. In the face of it Kurt surrendered the argument quickly. She knew he'd been to their destination before, and so visualising it wouldn't be a problem. Contrary to popular belief, Tabby wasn't stupid. The blonde image was useful sometimes, but _only _sometimes. As such, strategising – even if only on a trifling basis – was not beyond her.

When the pair of kids passed from one hall into the next, all that was left was a gently dissipating cloud – not unlike that created by the stink bombs housed in a nearby classroom.

* * *

The Bayville High computer lab was an interesting place.

At first glance, it was just the same as any school lab – filled with softly bleeping terminals, all sat patiently waiting for someone to come and siphon off information for term papers, homework and/or class prep.

There were about a dozen computers, all told, each with its own keyboard, mouse, and disk drive, but all sharing the same expensive laser printer. The printer was a gamble on the part of the governors after what often happened to expensive equipment at this most – unintentionally – destructive of schools.

However, what was different about this particular school lab had nothing to do with the people who used it, or the faith of the governors who managed it. What was remarkable was actually very subtle, contained in the fabric of the machines themselves, and could be traced back to the time when one Ms. Darkholme had been principal.

Ms. Darkholme had, during the course of her career at Bayville, taken it upon herself to volunteer the school for a pioneering project to test out a revolutionary new software for a multinational corporation. The purpose of the project had been to trial the software, then only in a developmental incarnation, in such situations as would become commonplace when it was eventually refined and sold on to the highest bidder. There are few places as rigorous or well used as a school lab, nor so unlikely to use it for unscrupulous purposes. The partnership had been mutually beneficial. The company got to test their product without having to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on independent administrators, and BHS gained a set of brand new 'supercomputers'.

It was never really clear how Ms. Darkholme came by the venture in the first place, since she left Bayville shortly afterwards, but the changes she'd made were certainly valuable to the students. Modems were faster than any they'd ever seen before, and there were any number of other perks to being guinea pigs – one of which Kitty was making very good use of now that the lab was empty for lunch.

She hadn't known it until after the departure of 'Ms. Darkholme', but one of the reasons the school computers were so powerful was because the technology had been 'helped along' by technology previously belonging only to a certain section of the FBI. Right now, this was proving most useful in her online search for one Anton Sevarius, since she'd recently learned how to navigate more restricted areas using that kind of software without leaving 'footprints'.

That seemed to be the only thing that was useful, however. In all other respects, the previous free study period and subsequent chunk of lunch break had been a complete and total waste of her time. She had made no real headway in her search, and was currently staring in frustration at the screen, as though by doing so she could conjure up what she wanted.

She didn't even hear the door open and shut, nor the quiet footsteps across the room. So when a pair of hands suddenly grabbed her shoulders, she jumped, standing and turning ready to take her attacker's head off with a roundhouse kick. That she managed to keep her feet out of someone's skull spoke volumes for her self-control.

"Lance?" she said – for it was indeed he, holding his hands up in the universal gesture for 'please don't hit me, scary girl'.

"You were expecting maybe Prince Charming?"

Kitty ran a hand through her bangs, letting the heel rest against her forehead a moment. The fan wasn't working, and her face was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. Her hand, by comparison, was cold as ice – the result of keeping it fixed to a mouse for several hours. "You startled me, was all. Sorry about that. Too many training sessions with Wol – er, Logan."

Lance shrugged and rammed his hands in his pockets. "So, this the right time to say hello? Or am I gonna get kicked in the head anyway?" He smiled that vaguely goofy half-smile that had the tendency to turn her knees to jelly, much to her own consternation.

"You can say hello if you want to," she replied primly, sitting back down in her chair and pulling it up close to the computer desk.

"All right then, I will. Hello."

Despite the frustration gnawing at the back of her brain, Kitty tittered. It was an unpleasant habit, she felt, and one much better suited to girls with far less grey matter than herself. Not that she was conceited or anything, but everyone had things they didn't like about themselves. For Kitty, dizzy tittering was one of them. It made her sound like a complete and utter ditz, which, though she had ditzy moments, was not something she was especially keen on encouraging anymore. Girls who dated seniors – even seniors like… well, Lance – were sophisticated and worldly, not silly giddy-brains with more sense in their big toes than between their ears.

A shadow fell across the keyboard.

"Lance, you're in my light."

"The sun was in my eyes on your other side. Besides, it's a self-lit screen."

She sighed, but didn't reply. Her fingers flew lightly over the keys, as she typed in another line of code. A few seconds, a faint beep, and she uttered a curse that would have shocked her mother.

Lance only raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like someone's a little tense. What exactly are you doing cooped up in here, anyway? It's lunchtime."

"I kinda promised the others I'd do something."

"Ah, the illustrious X-Men. If it's not evil teachers, it's mutant hero wannabes and their mission of the week." He hadn't mustered much in the way of cheerfulness.

Kitty shot him a vaguely reproving look. "Must you be so bitter?"

"It's in the job description. Plus, I have a rep to protect."

"What rep? We're the only two people in the room."

Lance held a finger to his lips and whispered theatrically. "Shhh. The walls have ears." Then he made a show of pressing the side of his head to the wall, face a mask of concentration.

Kitty laughed, a genuine laugh this time, and felt much the better for it. Lance had a way of making her feel better about situations beyond her control. It was a knack of his, one she appreciated much more than perhaps she even admitted to herself, and she was prepared to put up with any amount of flack from her teammates to keep it in her life.

Of course, had someone told her that a couple of years ago, when he was burying her in the rubble of their old school office, she would have called them crazy.

_Kinda weird, the hand life deals you._

She turned back to the screen. Lance moved to get a better view of it.

"So, what exactly are you up to that's so damn important, anyway? This is the blessed hour of freedom. I had to give up having a smoke to come find you."

"'Blessed'? You been hanging around the fantasy section of the library or something?"

"Well excuse me for trying to act cultured. But seriously, Kitty-Kat, what's…" he narrowed his eyes, reading off what seemed to be the only words of any meaning on the monitor, "an Anton Sever… Sevi…?"

"Sevarius. I'm researching him. He's… just some guy we needed a heads-up on for something." She faltered, part of her clamping down on her tongue before it could wag. That, she reminded herself, was not her story to tell.

"Another Big Bad for Xavier's super-team to take care of?" Lance frowned. "Is this something the Brotherhood should be worried about?"

Kitty shook her head. "I don't think so. He's a bit of a loose canon we were wondering about, but information on him isn't, like, readily available on the more… official channels." She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, choosing her phrasing carefully. No use in spelling it out. There might be something to Lance's 'walls with ears' theory, after all. In a place like Bayville, it was entirely possible.

"You're hacking? Kitty, I'm surprised at you." Lance wagged a finger. "You'll be setting fire to trash cans and egging Kelly's car, next."

"And spoil Todd's fun? I don't think so. And it's not really hacking, just… looking at things without anyone knowing about it." She sat back in her chair. "Not that I'm actually looking at anything useful about him. The guy, like, completely dropped off the map. No info anywhere, unless it's some totally weird rumour. Some of it is pretty, well, just plain _bizarre_…" She clicked on a few things, bringing up a finer list of the more unusual – and no doubt completely falsified - tittle-tattle. It all looked very daunting and well guarded.

"You're scaring me. You're not supposed to be able to do that."

Kitty grinned. "Thanks. I've had a lot of practise at it."

That made him blink. "Somehow, I get the feeling I shouldn't enquire further."

"You _have_ been in the library, haven't you? I guess that theory about info osmosis might have something to it, after all." Kitty cracked her knuckles, hands stiff and fingers rigid from hours of typing. Her shoulders felt tense, too. She rolled them absently.

Lance shifted his stance a little, brushing her ponytail away from her neck with impossibly gentle fingers. Those kids who had been on the end of lunch-money swirlies would have been poleaxed to know that their personal bully could be so tender to anyone – let alone a giggly little freshman he'd begun his time at BHS treating to Glares of Doom.

Kitty found herself shivering at the light brush of his fingertips against her skin, and instantly berated herself for acting so.

"Don't you ever get found out?" he asked, apparently not noticing her reaction. "Like, by the faculty, or something? Getting caught _is _a bad thing, right?"

Kitty shepherded her thoughts back into place and passed a hand over her mouth. Just in case, mind. "Oh, I never _get_ caught. I just _worry_ about being caught. Big difference. I'm too careful to leave doorways open for other people."

"Again, _not _following that train of thought."

Kitty wished she could say the same thing. He seemed to be rearranging her topknot so that stray piece of hair were marshalled back into it, and the closeness of him made the flesh of the back of her neck go goosepimply. Uncomfortably so. She was even more restless when he spoke again.

"You tense? Here." He put his hands on her shoulders and began rotating both thumbs, pressing into the bone firmly, yet not unpleasantly. In fact, to her great surprise, a good chunk of tension instantly drained away from her cramped joints and muscles.

"Mmm, that's nice." Turning her head slightly, she fixed him with one beady eye. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Meh, I try," Lance shrugged, though she though she could see a faint blush. Evidently, this sort of tenderness wasn't something he was used to, either.

The thought made her feel a little better, and she reached for the computer mouse with a quiet smile.

Lance's massage technique was such that Kitty had to wonder how he'd acquired it. And gotten so good, too. How many other girls had he practised on to be able to ease her stress and stiffness so skilfully…?

_Stop! Bad thought. Very bad. Staying away from that one._

Kitty was not as naïve as a lot of people thought. In some respects, she was one of the shrewdest people in school. Certainly, with regards to Lance, she was under no disillusion. She knew he'd been out with other girls before her. she knew he'd done… things with them. She'd seen a couple of them, back in Illinois, when he'd been but a minor blip on her radar. Back then, anything and anybody willing to leave her alone and not shove her into her locker had been counted as non-threatening, no matter what other thuggish behaviour they indulged in.

That didn't mean she liked thinking about past girlfriends, though. Well, who would?

Thus it was she easily immersed herself back in conversation when Lance piped up with, "So… I guess the Internet's good for something other than porn after all, huh?"

"_Lance_!"

"Sorry, sorry," he said, utterly unremorseful, "too much time spent around Pietro. That's all he ever uses it for."

"You guys have Internet access at the Boarding House?" Though rarely discussed, she was well aware of Brotherhood finances, and knew that they barely stretched to bills, rent and food, let alone luxuries like the Internet.

"Direct line to his majesty's bedroom. Paid for via a private credit card, of course."

"Of course." An insistent beep. She hastily closed down the window she'd been operating in. "Aw, dammit. Not again."

"Is that a sign of surrender?" There was a hopeful note to Lance's voice.

"That's a 'I-hate-being-defeated-by-machines' sign," Kitty replied. She exhaled loudly, and spent a few silent minutes typing furiously in the remaining window. It was more stubbornness than anything else. She'd come to the conclusion that her search was not going to turn up anything solid on Sevarius about twenty minutes ago, but her misguided sense of perseverance had not let her give up so easily. After all, she'd reasoned, she was not doing this solely for herself.

Even so…

Kitty moved the mouse to the taskbar, hit 'Start', and selected 'Shut Down'. That done, she rolled her chair backwards, rising to her feet and dislodging Lance's hands in the process. A part of her was saddened by the loss of contact, but she swiftly hushed it. Now was not the time to become a slave to her own hormones.

"C'mon, let's go and see if there's anything edible left in the cafeteria."

"In _our_ cafeteria? Optimistic much?"

* * *

In every school, in every city, in every state, and – probably – in every country, there is an out-of-the-way place reserved for those who enjoy inhaling nicotine smoke. Though given no official title, such places referred to by some as 'Smokers' Country'. They are also known as locations non-smokers must never go. In some more neglected neighbourhoods, presence is by invitation only, and woe betide any faculty member who mistakenly strays into that No Man's Land.

Bayville Smokers' Country was not so extreme as all that, but it was still a place people did not generally like to venture. A permanent pall of grey hung over the area. Kurt waved continually at it as he talked. Not that it did much good, but it seemed to make him feel better.

He was obviously uncomfortable being there, as evidenced by the way his eyes roved around and his weight shifted from foot to foot. That Smokers' Country was so close to Forge's old lab probably wasn't helping things. Mucho bad memories and all that jazz.

By comparison, Tabby was completely at home in the lee behind the science block. She had enjoyed many a covert cigarette there between classes. For all its faults, Smokers' Country provided an unprecedented view that allowed her to speak freely, safe in the knowledge that she could see anyone approaching.

Which proved to be just as well, as Kurt's story unfolded. He gabbled parts of it, hesitated on others – sometimes until she physically prodded him to carry on – but he didn't leave much out. She got the feeling there were one or two things concerning _himself _that he kept back, but since she had quite enough to digest already, she didn't dig for them.

The level to which Tabby's eyebrows were raised had been mounting ever since Kurt began. By the end, the space between brows and eyes was a significant fraction of the earth's diameter. She didn't even realise he'd finished at first. She was too busy contemplating what she'd been told, lips parted slightly in surprise.

"Tabitha?"

She jolted at her name, which resulted in a very unladylike snort. "Huh? What?"

Kurt peered at her, expectant and obviously anticipating a response. He seemed nervous, and she got the distinct feeling it wasn't anything to do with their location this time.

Oh. Yeah. Oath, secrecy, trust – those things he'd been careful to emphasise in his narration.

"Thanks, Blue. For telling me, I mean. With a bit of luck, that'll stop me from contracting the dreaded FIMD when I see Ray again. That's Foot In Mouth Disease, in case you were wondering."

Kurt tilted his head to one side, eyes searching. Since Tabby had met him in his fuzzy form first, and got to know him the same way, she always felt slightly freaked looking into his holographic eyes. Not least of all because the emotion in them was not always what was going on beneath.

"Is that all? Don't you want to say anything else?"

She leaned against the brickwork, arms folded and jaws bouncing off her gum. Her face took on as pensive a quality as it ever did. "What else do you want me to say? The staple 'I'm sorry' seems pretty trite. Besides, you're not really the person I'm supposed to say it to if I'm gonna say it, right?"

"Point. But still," Kurt moved in such a way as indicated his tail would like to be free and waving, "you must have _something_ to say, jawohl?"

"The whole talky-talk thing really isn't my forte, Blue. You know that. I tend to end up with a sneaker halfway down my throat." She puffed out her cheeks, letting air out slowly, as a few things slotted into place in her brain.

It felt rather odd, the notion that there was such a large portion of Ray's life about which she'd known absolutely nothing. Less than nothing, even. When she and he did speak, they talked about a great many things; bluntly, even crudely, and she had to wonder after her own intuition as a friend that she hadn't sensed the _enormity_ of the secrets he was keeping from her. Not that she was really one to talk about skeletons in the cupboard, but _still_. Running away from home and spending six months in a sewer with a whole _tribe_ of subversive mutants… that was a pretty gigantic skeleton. Like, a skeleton that had been bathed in radioactive waste, grown to gigantic proportions and was about to eat Tokyo.

"Tabitha?"

"Just Tabby, Blue. Don't be so formal."

Kurt frowned a little. "Stop changing the subject."

"Not that the uniforms wouldn't be kinky-cool, but I'm not playing psychiatrist-patient with you, Blue. Yes, what you just told me is a bit of a shock, but not so much that I'm about to fall off the world because I'm so traumatised. Granted, the Morlocks thing knocked me for a loop – I never realised mutants existed in such numbers as to create a whole frikkin' _tribe_ of recluses. And down in the sewers, no less. But suspension of disbelief is less a slogan, more a lifestyle for people like us." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "You've gotta admit, we haven't exactly led conventional lives."

Kurt was forced to admit they hadn't. "But - "

Tabby cut him off, listing a few things off on her fingers. "Being mutants and having abilities most people would consider as superpowers; being taught Chemistry by a guy who takes leave to go back to nature and grow blue fur; having said teacher abducted by obsessed Big-Foot-ers; living in a town where a super-powered vigilante group is so mundane it doesn't make the news until three months after its first spotted – you want me to go on?"

"Okay, so you have a point about the weirdness in our lives. Even so – Ray's your friend. You've spent more time with him than I ever have, which I assume means you're closer to him. And since I feel pretty stinky for not picking up on the signs that something was wrong, I can't imagine what _you _must be feeling."

She was feeling rather crap, as it happened, but she wasn't about to let him know that. After all, she was Boom-Boom – the wild card whom nothing could touch or affect in any great measure. After the debacle that had ensued from her no good bum of a father rolling into town, Tabby had sworn to herself not to let anyone see her get angsty over _anything_. Showing that kind of emotion was like putting up a big neon arrow marked 'weakness here! Free for all manipulation buffet on the blonde chick!'

Fun loving, sure. Angry, yes. But upset? Nu-uh. Why be upset about something when you could just as easily blow it up, thereby removing its problem status?

Not exactly a good philosophy, and not one that stood up in most circumstances, but having a motto like that made her feel better about her limited sphere of influence.

"Tabby?" Kurt peered at her, twisting a little.

"Look, Blue, I'm not gonna go all weepy over this, so don't push me. I just … need a little time to let it sink in."

"Aha! So you _do_ feel something."

"Never said I didn't. I just said I didn't wanna talk about it. Yeah, Ray's my bud, and yeah, I feel kinda guilty I never saw things the way they actually _were_ with him, and, okay, _yeah_ I feel bad about what happened to the Morlocks. But let's get a few things straight, shall we? One: I never knew the Morlocks, so it'd be pretty hypocritical of me to tear my hair out and mourn them a whole heap. Two: I did, in fact, think something was wrong with Ray recently, but I put it down to problems with his parents. It's a damn big leap from something like that to something so far out as… this. And you've gotta admit, Ray isn't exactly bubbling over with personal details enough to steer people in the right direction, is he?"

Kurt looked as though he was about to say something disparaging, but she cut him off before he became infected with his own variety of FIMD.

"On the other hand, whoever did that to the Morlocks, I could still happily feed to a pack of ravenous piranha."

Kurt did a very obvious double take.

Tabby allowed herself a slender smirk.

"Sevarius," he said, amending her words, if not openly agreeing with them.

Tabby shook her head. Then she tipped it back, tracing the outline of a cloud with her eyes. The day was a nice one, with blue skies and little white puffballs scudding through it. Hardly the kind of day to be told of mass murder, secret pasts and savage trespassers.

She supposed she really should be getting used to this sort of thing by now.

"We only have Ray's guesswork to say it's him. And from what you've told me, you gotta admit, the evidence is more than a little circumstantial."

She couldn't tell his reaction to that, since Kurt chose that moment to hide behind his hair and look at his feet. Although she _thought _she heard him mutter something that might have been grudging surrender. Then again, it could easily have been a rude remark. That was the thing about German as a language. You could be ordering out for sushi in it and still sound like you were cursing someone's family into the fourth generation.

Kurt was a joker by nature, but he did have his serious side – especially where family and friends were concerned – so it wasn't a black and white thing to call.

"When we know nothing, all we can do is suppose."

"Geez, this is the thanks I get when I try to be a voice of reason? Catch me doing that again – I don't think."

"Forgive me if accepting you as a voice of reason is a little bit of a stretch."

Tabby had no answer to that, so she gave none. Instead, she pushed off from the wall and ambled away.

There was the sound of footfalls, and Kurt fell into step beside her.

She was a little surprised he didn't just escape while he had the chance, but he was still hiding behind his hair, so she couldn't read his face to look for motive.

There was a loaded pause. It graduated to pregnant, as they mounted the steps to leave the gradient that marked Smokers' Country's territorial border. Its waters broke halfway up the stairwell, and the grizzling, mewling excuse for dialogue squirmed into the world with a; "I never figured you one for emotional constipation."

"That movie really gets around, doesn't it?"

Kurt blinked, face sliding into view at last. "What movie?"

Tabby paused, and then shook her head. Without warning, she pivoted on one foot and sat down on the step that marked midway between Smoker's Country and the rest of the world. "Sit," she commanded, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Kurt paused, wavered, and then obeyed. When he touched down, a small sigh breached his lips, like contact had driven it up from his lungs. He didn't bother to remove his backpack, though it could not possibly have been comfortable in that position.

"Something's bothering you," Tabby said bluntly. A small voice in the back of her brain had started up, demanding a cigarette, but she squashed it. However, it persevered, and she listened to Kurt's reply with silent remonstrations of how one should not have to deal with bombshells without nicotine, alcohol, or at _least_ caffeine.

"Well, _duh _- "

"Not that. And don't give me any of that vicarious-pain-for-a-teammate crap, because we both know that's not what I'm talking about. It'd be an utterly pointless waste of air, Kurt."

She rarely used his real name. That she did now seemed to light the touch-paper within him. Kurt let his chin fall against the back of one fist. "It was just something Ray said," he confessed at length, proving her suspicions.

"Gonna need more details than that. Ray says a lot of things."

Kurt was reticent. When he did speak, it was like dragging the words out with rusty fishing hooks. He dodged her questions, parried her accusations, and eventually baffled her completely by saying, "I never thought about glass boxes since I came to America. Not since the very beginning, at least."

"Excuse me?" She waved a hand above her head meaningfully. "Me no speaky what you speaky, boyo."

"Glass boxes," Kurt said again, like that would make everything clear.

Tabby's mind sifted through memories, looking for a connection.

She hadn't been lying when she said that comforting people in distress was not her strong suit. Generally, she preferred coasting through life on a wave of good feeling, and, given a few of the things she'd had to deal with in her sixteen years, she felt entitled to doing so.

All the same…

_Ping!_

There it was.

It hadn't been a particularly long exchange, but at one point, when she still lived at the Institute, she'd run across Kurt transporting what appeared to be a very small tree in a glass container up to Ororo's attic. Bonsai, perhaps…? Meh, didn't matter. What mattered was what he had said. Something about privacy and people being able to see through glass…

_God damn it. _"Kurt."

"Hmm?" He looked up from where he'd been staring at a particularly riveting piece of gravel.

"You're not going to be buried in a glass box. Ever. Savvy?"

He coloured slightly. It was his own personal fear, as far as she knew, that a visual mutant like him would prove a magnet to hungry researchers and geneticists with… looser morals than most. Everyone had nightmares. Some more than others. Quite a few of his involved scalpels, restraints and screaming that was easily heard through a bedroom wall.

"You remember."

"My memory's not the thing we're discussing here." She perused a burnt umber fingernail so she wouldn't have to look at his expression. Damn mobile features. Damn them all to hell.

"It just got me thinking, is all," Kurt said with an expulsion of breath that bordered on doleful.

"What did?"

"That obvious mutants could be driven to living in filth just because they look different to everyone else."

"Blue, the only way you'd be moving into the sewer is if the whole X-Men team made a mass exodus down there for… I dunno, to learn Zen or something." She spiralled a hand at the wrist, cursing her own lack of general knowledge. "Zen and crap disposal. Ugh. Anyway, the point is, it's not gonna happen. Not in a million, billion, _gazillion_ years. I can tell you _that _without even breaking a _sweat_."

"But it could've."

"You are far too good in picking holes in my arguments, which indicates far too much time spent dwelling on this kind of thing. I swear, Blue, you start quoting the multiverse at me…" She left the sentence unfinished, unable to think of a suitable conclusion.

"They were just like me, Tabby," Kurt said suddenly. There was an earnestness to his voice that made her take note. "What happened to them… it could so easily have been… I mean, not to sound selfish or anything, but…"

"Hey, we're all allowed a selfish moment or twelve. Altruism only goes so far."

Tabby tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and contemplated what he'd said. For once in her life, she actually wished she had been blessed with the mutant ability of articulacy rather than boom-bombs. Her personality tended to have all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. "Whoever… did that to the Morlocks is scum, Blue. Pure and simple. But he or she wouldn't get the chance to even _entertain_ the thought of doing that to you – or anyone else in this town, for that matter. You got friends watching your back." She shrugged. "Good friends who've put themselves on the line for you before. You think they'd let some sick fuck get his grubby little mitts on their Elf? Hell, you think _Logan_ would?"

"I guess. It's just… it makes you evaluate a few things, being confronted with stuff like that."

See, even he admits it. Cigarette! Cigarette! _Shut up, brain_, Tabby admonished, returning her attention to the lump of depression sitting next to her. "Evaluation is good. From what I hear, it means maturity – though that's not a word I'd associate with you very often. However, dwelling is bad. Dwelling means asking questions you can't ever answer, and settling down into a funk nothing short of Ice-Cream Shack's Vanilla-zilla can break you out of. And I, for one, am too broke to buy you one of those right now. So," she slapped her hands against her thighs, "no funking, please. Fundage will not allow."

Kurt sighed once more and straightened up. Downbeat emotion still ghosted across his face, but it was faint and fading. Had it vanished instantly, she would have been worried. That it stuck around a few more seconds indicated he wasn't just spinning her a line about feeling better.

"You're right. Been doing way too much bad dwelling."

"I know I'm right. I'm always right. You just never trust me when I tell you that." Tabby got to her feet.

"Because your track record is just _so_ encouraging in that area," Kurt said, doing likewise. "You know, you sell yourself short when you say you're not good at the comfort thing."

Tabby shook her head and proceeded up the stairwell. "Shrink is not a future job prospect, Blue, so halt that train of thought right there. Helping out a friend in danger of drowning in his own pessimism is one thing. But I just couldn't do for strangers I really don't give a shit about, all day, every day. I'd blow someone up before the first week was out."

* * *

Logan was deliberately avoiding the mansion's sublevels. He'd been alerted of the telepathic success with Feral, and told diplomatically that things had gone off without a hitch even without his help. He'd read between the lines, of course, but it didn't bother him. Much.

What _did_ burn him up was that he couldn't trust himself around Feral now that she was awake. The compulsion to finish what he'd started last night was nigh impossible to ignore. Hence, avoidance tactics.

On a deeper level, he knew that his behaviour was irrational. Suspicions aside, what stood between him and the fearsome little refugee boiled down to his wounded pride. Unfortunately, Logan had endured nigh on two hundred years of honour in some for or another. You learned how to hold a grudge or two over that amount of time.

His room was not a comfort zone, as it was for some people. Logan primarily viewed it as a place to sleep and keep his clothes, nothing more. Those few people who had seen the inside had all been surprised at the barrenness of it all; the lack of personal items, the wanting in colour beyond what standard decoration Charles had installed in all the bedrooms. They all assumed that, with so many years under his belt, Logan would have at least a few keepsakes around of his life and extensive travels.

What they didn't know was that it was precisely _because _of those things that Logan _didn't_ have any real personal effects. Nothing that couldn't be replaced, at any rate. Even his beloved leather jacket had not been mourned when it hit the trash. It was only a thing – an object. Something you learned after a few centuries was that objects never meant so much as the people that went with them.

Thus it was that Logan found himself stalking the halls, settling on no single task as he went. Usually, he would have gone down to the Danger Room to blow off a little steam, but that involved going further downstairs than he wished.

He could've gone for a ride on his motorcycle, but he didn't much want to leave the grounds. Hank, 'Ro et al could take care of themselves, he knew, but his protective instincts had been riled, and they had not allayed since last night.

The best course of action he could think of was a nice, stiff cup of coffee, since the zing of alcohol was pretty much negated by his healing factor. Logan's coffee was legendary, with Scott more than once comparing it to primordial ooze. It seemed just the thing to clear his head.

When he reached the kitchen, however, he was greeted by a most perplexing smell. It was not unlike sugar water, of the kind a thirteen-year-old Scott had once tried to catch ants with out on the driveway. Yet there was a bitterer edge to it, slightly sour, and stinging to Logan's sensitive nose. He paused, recognising it as fresh and new since his last cup of joe this morning, after the students had left for school.

There was a sound like metal clinking against ceramic. He advanced cautiously. Everyone was downstairs right now, so who could be –

He scented.

Ah.

Jamie looked up as Logan's squat frame filled the doorway. Logan could almost _feel_ the kid flinch at the imposing figure he must have presented. Exposure to Ororo must have been affecting him, though, because he found himself deliberately relaxing the tense slant of his shoulders to put him at ease.

Damn. Too soft.

Jamie, due to the erratic nature of his mutation, was home-schooled. When he first came to Bayville, just Ororo and Charles had undertaken his education with the help of a training course or two and some mail-order curricula. When Hank joined the Institute, he had automatically undertaken the lion's share of the boy's education, though nobody stipulated he do so. It seemed Jamie gave a little purpose to his day, and that had been what got him through those initial, erratic weeks when first confronted with his new form and his inability to return to Bayville High.

Logan had never really gone in for all that teaching stuff outside Danger Room sims. Training sessions he could do, but academia escaped him. He couldn't even remember his own, though he must have had some, since he knew all the basics like the three R's. Thus it was that he sometimes forgot the youngest X-Man's presence when he was here during the day. Years of having the place primarily left to adults during that time had conditioned him to think it kid-free.

"Mister Logan," Jamie started, pausing in his task of vigorously beating something to death in a giant mixing bowl. it looked a lot like vomit.

He was stood on what Logan assumed was a plastic box, of the sort Ororo used to keep loose vegetables in. Littered across the tabletop were the remains of a very scattershot cooking affair – empty, half crushed eggshells; an open packet of flour; several dozen sugar sachets, torn open, their contents gone; melted chocolate chips; a small, unscrewed bottle of vanilla essence; a bag of crystallised ginger Ororo sometimes used in her more exotic dishes…

Logan raised an eyebrow at the mess. Jamie was not wearing anything even approaching an apron. As a result, a lot of it was splattered across him, as well as the worktop. One of the rotors on the ceiling fan looked drippy, as did parts of the floor.

"Okay, kid, you got me." Logan folded his arms and struck an expectant pose. "What is it?"

Jamie blinked, looked down at the mixture, and then back up again. His expression switched to one of embarrassment. He wiped at his forehead with the back of one hand, leaving a grainy smear of yellowish paste in his hairline. "Um… Mr. McCoy was busy, and there was nobody around to teach me today, so I… uh…"

Logan never would've figured Hank to forget his duties. Hmm. Seemed the good Dr. Beast was not infallible. "You decided to give yourself a crash course in Home Ec. in his absence?"

"Um," Jamie said, sounding a lot like the scared little boy he constantly professed he was not.

Being younger than the rest of the X-Men had the consequence that they tended to view Jamie as inferior, even if they didn't admit it to themselves. It was a subconscious thing, probably stemming from times when the human race lived in caves, and having a weak link in the chain meant becoming wild animal chow. The fact that Jamie was small for his age didn't help matters.

Logan had watched the rest of the group in training sessions, when they went through the 'pick-me-pick-me-oh-please-pick-me' style of working. Jamie always filled the last-one-standing-on-the-sidelines role. It was the same in playgrounds and Phys. Ed. everywhere in the world. Nobody wanted the weaker player on their team, and ignored him or her when they ended up playing alongside each other.

Jamie, through no fault of his own, was the perennial weaker player. And unless someday he figured out a way of controlling his mutation, it was likely always going to be that way. Even _he _admitted that he could be a liability sometimes, which meant that most of the past year with the X-Men had been spent cooped up in the mansion and grounds for fear of letting him out in public. They just couldn't risk him cloning himself at some inopportune moment. He had no desire to blow the lid off Mutantkind by being careless, either. As Logan recalled, it had been Jamie and his parents who suggested home-schooling in the first place.

The ceramic bowl was tilted to one side, revealing a syrupy yellow gunk, shot through with blotches of white. It was this that Logan had smelled before. Now the odd, dichotomous odour filled his nostrils, making him snort.

Jamie frowned. "It smells bad?" he said in a small voice. "I guess I must've remembered the recipe wrong." His volume never rose above a mumble.

He was a nice enough kid, shortcomings aside, but deathly afraid of Logan, which had been almost an amusement in the past, but now proved more of an irritation.

"Pungent," Logan said in return. Giving no more explanation than that, he asked, "What is it?"

"Sad Pudding."

"Say what?"

"Um, Sad Pudding? My Mom used to fix it for me when I was upset, to make me feel better. And I thought… since some people were cut up about what happened last night… um… I mean…"

_Aw, how sweet_, Logan thought humourlessly. _I'm gettin' cavities_. "By 'some people', who 'zactly do you mean?"

"Um, Ray? And Feral. And - " Jamie's words dissolved into a small squeak, as a growl exited Logan's throat at the taboo name.

Instantly, Logan could hear the echo of Ororo's voice. It wasn't bad enough his attitude stunk worse than overripe cheddar, now he was scaring kids into the bargain? For shame, Logan. For shame.

He moved around the table, coffee forgotten, and picked up a pitcher half filled with milk. Full fat of course, much to the Half-Pint's chagrin, owing to Porcupine's need for calcium and other nutrients that only milk could give him. It smelled rather sterile, some part of Logan noticed; an upshot of production line foodstuffs, where everything was cleaned, shuffled, cleaned, packed, and then cleaned again, before finally being allowed into the food chain.

He had a memory of drinking milk only minutes after it had left the cow. It arose in his brain quite suddenly and unexpectedly. So much so, in fact, that he nearly dropped the pitcher, and spent a few seconds marshalling his brain back into coherence.

Damn scrappy memory. If he ever got his hands on that Wraith guy again…

"Mister Logan, are you okay?" A pair of wide eyes filtered into his vision.

Logan grunted. "So how do you make this cr… stuff?" he asked minimally, setting the milk down and laying both palms flat against the table. One pressed into something sticky, and he grimaced, going to the sink to wash it off and kill two birds with one stone regarding hygiene.

Jamie was surprised. He did little to disguise it. "You… wanna know how to make Sad Pudding?"

"I don't like repeatin' myself, kid. You got a set recipe, or you just wingin' it with what we got?"

He scrambled. "Uh, my Mom made it up, but she said it's gotta have a certain base, and then you add the rest in according to personal taste. She said it's a little like pancakes. You've always gotta have batter to make them, but after that you can add in whatever you want to make them taste better."

"Uh-huh." Logan crossed the room and snagged an apron from the hook on the inside of the pantry door. Pausing a second to slip it over his head, he grabbed another and handed it to Jamie. "Put this on. Not that it makes much difference to you now, but you don't wanna be wearin' more than you're servin', savvy? One of the first rules of cookin'."

"You cook?" It seemed Jamie hadn't meant to say the words out loud, because his face instantly drained of colour. A hand hovered halfway to his mouth, as though thinking about clapping over it.

"Learned a long time ago," Logan said without batting an eyelid. He reached behind himself in a thoroughly gymnastic manoeuvre to tie the apron into place. "Some things are in this world that all folk should be acquainted with. Knowin' how to feed yourself properly's one of 'em."

He must look the very picture of domesticity, he thought, as he rolled his shirtsleeves and went about fetching utensils and a fresh mixing bowl. A towel appeared, dampened, and swept aside most of the debris. He couldn't have cared less about how he looked, though. This was proving a good enough distraction from his unwelcome ponderings – and he wasn't just talking about Feral. One or two of the kids were due a thorough chewing out when they got home for what he'd found in the perimeter wall.

"So, what's first?"

"Flour. And eggs to bind it with the butter." Jamie hopped off his box and fetched what wasn't already on the table. Carefully, delicately, he transported a fresh box of six medium eggs – free range, naturally – and set them down like a newborn.

Logan, content to take orders for now, did as he was told with nary a word that wasn't a question.

After fifteen minutes of this, Jamie stopped. In his hands large, gem-like fragments of crystallised ginger glimmered sweetly. One had already been crushed on a chopping board into smaller, more manageable pieces by Logan's more than capable hands. He was waiting patiently to be furnished with another.

"You know," Jamie said, in the voice of one who has just been confronted by some fantastic phenomenon even science is at a loss to explain. Few people at the mansion ever used such a tone, since so much of their lives were made up of the unbelievable and bizarre. When one lived with a werewolf, a human pincushion, and people easily able to level a whole city by accident, everything else tended to become just a little mundane. "You know," Jamie nevertheless said, "since I joined the Institute, I've been exposed to some major league eepiness."

Logan raised his aerobic eyebrow. "Eepiness?"

"Like creepiness, but more eerie. Even so, this is… just plain weird."

There went the eyebrow again. It was certainly getting a good workout today. "How?"

"Well, standing here. With you." Jamie gestured wide, wrist limp like it couldn't hold his hand up, "Teaching you how to cook. You. Logan. It's just a bit…uh, a bit surreal, is all. I mean, _you're_ the teacher. Not me. I'm just a kid."

Logan went back to viciously assaulting his mixture for a moment, which had turned a shade of yellowish-green that could politely be described as puce. It looked revolting, but the smell coming off it was peculiarly alluring; a fusion of sweet and bitter that trod a very fine line between pleasant and offensive. "Ev'ryone can learn somethin' new, Shorty, an' ev'ryone's got somethin' valuable to teach. No exceptions. Now pass me one of those crystals before this stuff ferments and I gotta start over."

Jamie did so, watching intently as Logan used the heel of his hand to shatter the ginger. Sometimes adamantium bones could come in pretty useful, though Logan had never really considered the kitchen a place for them before.

"Is that my nickname? Shorty?" Jamie didn't sound _entirely _displeased at the notion.

"Didn't I give you one before?"

He shook his head.

"Hmm, an oversight on my part. Guess it is now, then. Why? You don't like it?"

A hasty raising of the hands to assuage any possible offence caused. The kid seemed awfully good at that. "No. I mean yes! Yes, I like it."

"Good." Having pressed the ginger into his bowl, Logan swirled the wooden spoon around once and tapped it on the side. A few splots of gloop flew off. "We got any raisins?"

"Uh, I don't think so. I didn't see any in the storeroom."

"Pity. Not too fond of chocolate, but this needs something." He tapped the spoon some more, as though that would incite inspiration to whack him about the head with a suggestion.

Jamie considered for a moment, and then said tentatively, "Would chopped apple do? It's kinda tangy, and if you bake it for a little while it'd be soft enough to use."

Logan allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk into a half-smile. It startled the kid, which made it grow into a full smirk. "Good idea. See? Ev'ryone's got something to teach someone else. Now stop lookin' like a scared rabbit an' get on with your own puddin' before it goes crooked."

* * *

_To Be Continued…_

* * *

**Review Replies**!

**Psycho-Neurotically Disturbed**** –** Ah, those darn technicalities. Still, stalker or no stalker, I still appreciate the review. Thanks.

**Angel of the Fallen Stars – **Sense is overrated. And you're right about Kitty's uses for the hole in the wall, though she wasn't the only one using it. She may be able to phase, but I doubt Lance would appreciate being prickled to death by brambles and suchlike. Been there and done that while picking blackberries as a child. Not fun. You usually find leftover thorns when you're putting your shoes on and they're between your toes.

**Me –** Yay! I love your reviews. I dig the whole stream of consciousness thing, dawg. And… it's entirely possible my meds are making me a little loopy. Yes, the hole in the wall is indeed an homage to DPM. For anyone else reading this, DPM stands for _Don't Pity Me_, and absolutely fan-bloody-tastic fanfic opus by InterNutter. It's available at her site and one request from her, if you want to try it. And I seriously recommend that you do. Now, Harry (and you really must correct me if you prefer being called Wriggle these days), the Rogue and Risty friendship fascinates me because we know of it, but we never really knew that much _about_ it, did we? The show just sort of said "Oh yeah, they're friends. Yes. And now they're not. Deal with it." I think Rogue's reactions, insular person that she is, would be a little more complicated than meet-greet-and-attach-self-to-new-girl. I wanted to know _why_ she preferred Risty's company instead of that of other people. And so this fic went along for the ride. 'Juxtapose' means to set something alongside something else, as in comparison. It's a term people tend to use when talking about the structure of poetry, but it can be used in any context, really. No, this fic isn't finished, and I've been working on it since early 2003. I just get distracted easily by shiny things. Ooh, look! Shiny thing!

**AzKailani –** Thank you very much. And thanks for the email, too. Did you get my reply?

**Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man –** I'm updatin'! I'm updatin'!


	12. Atishoo, Atishoo, All Fallout

* * *

**Chapter Eleven -**_Atishoo, Atishoo, All Fallout_

* * *

There were days when being a telepath was the greatest blessing on the planet. Worlds beyond the reach of anyone moored by their physical body were but a heartbeat away; thought was tangible, a living essence all its own. Beauty took on new meaning, and such things as people have only ever dreamed about became reality in seconds.

Conversely, there were also days when being a telepath was the biggest kick in the butt a person could ask for. Not that anyone would ever actually ask for a kick in the butt. Well, maybe masochists, but that was a whole other can of worms.

Jean sat, spine ramrod and parallel to the wall, with muscles locked and legs tucked Indian style under her body. She'd been in that position so long that the cold metal had warmed up, and was now reflecting her body heat back at her. Had she been concentrating on her posture, she might have pondered how uncomfortable she was. Her pose was one of classic meditation, as she had learned through many lessons with both Ororo and Logan; but it was hardly one conducive of comfort. However, her mind was somewhere else.

Literally.

As a telepath, Jean had long since established psychic links with each of her teammates. It made things easier when contact was needed quickly. Contrary to fantasy and sci-fi novels, movies, plays and suchlike, you couldn't just toss a thought into the air and have it received by the person you were aiming it at. Jean first needed a 'feel' for the mind she was trying to contact – some sense of presence on which to focus. Setting up prearranged connections with those close to her just shortened the process of pinpointing them when they weren't close by. It also helped bolster clarity of communication.

Every living thing on Earth emanates a small amount of psychic energy. Plant, animal, human – if it has a mind, it has a form of sentience or instinct, and so has a telepathic signal. Yes, even plants. Trees have very good memories – albeit, of a different kind to other organisms. All this crowds the planes inhabited by telepaths and those with other forms of extrasensory perception, creating a kind of spiritual white noise. Hundreds upon thousands upon millions of individual thoughts, feelings and emotions, just floating around to be picked up by unsuspecting minds.

This is the welcome mat and backdrop against which all emergent telepaths must learn to control their powers. It is not difficult, then, to understand why many are driven mad if proper help is not received. The ravings of some lunatics are more than just the product of mental disorders; they are cries for help from people whose individuality has been eroded by constant bombardment from the psychic planes, until they can no longer tell reality from Vision.

Jean Grey was one of the lucky ones. When her mutant abilities surfaced, she was within the range of one Charles Xavier, who reached out to her with his own telepathy and shored up her defences until he could convince her parents to allow her attendance at his school. After a fair amount of persuasion they agreed. Once there, Jean spent years learning how to set up her own defences against the inherent dangers of telepathy. From the ages of thirteen to sixteen she worked chiefly on security, setting up barrier after barrier, wall after wall, and trap after trap for anyone trying to get into her thoughts. This was as well as honing her telekinesis, and learning the things every girl of her age had to: English, science, maths, how to fit in with cliques and avoid backstabbers.

Finally, when he was as certain as he could be that she was ready, Xavier freed her mind from his protective restraints and allowed her to confront the psychic world she had been blocked from for so long.

Jean had come far since that day. Xavier was still undoubtedly the most powerful telepath in the world, but she was no shrinking violet, either. She'd learned all sorts of tricks and talents under his guidance – including how to make and keep contact with certain people.

One of the upshots of this was that, when the X-Men couldn't all be together in the same room, but still needed to talk with each other, Jean became a sort of 'switchboard'. She kept the psychic byways open and conducted each of their 'voices' through her own links, so that they could be heard by everyone else in their select little chain. It was a useful ability, and one she'd both devised and polished with her teammates when it was her turn to lead training sessions.

However, it also meant practically abandoning the physical world for a time so as to keep their airwaves up and running smoothly. Hence, her current location in one of the quiet corridors in the bowels of the Institute.

The reasons for this urgent 'gathering' had originally been twofold. However, since one had been to include Feral in the conversation to show a little collective friendliness, there was really only one reason now. The Morlock had been rather averse to having others inside her head, and Jean had respected her wishes by pulling out again.

Truth be told, Jean was a little glad Feral didn't want to 'talk'. Her mind was fractured, with shifting contours where there should have been smooth thought. It was a bit of a telepathic minefield, and not one Jean felt up to navigating whilst also holding sway over several dozen other minds and their dialogue. Some X-Men had better control over themselves in the ether than others, but they all needed her guiding hand at some point or other.

After school and a short conference with Xavier in which she got a salient update, Jean had begun by broadcasting the news of Feral's now conscious state to the other kids. She also included some details on Ray's involvement with calming her down, which had been met by impressed noises from all. Ray had been in on proceedings at that point, and blown all their words off with bravado. Jean sensed something beneath that felt like happy embarrassment, but didn't pry.

Then came the part she hadn't been looking forward to. Naturally, the other X-Men all wanted answers regarding Feral. Questions they hadn't felt able to ask last night now bubbled to the surface, and after a short while of habitual bristling, Ray consented to answering what he could. After all, as Jubilee so helpfully pointed out from the safety of her bedroom, if Feral was to be staying with them for a while – if only to recuperate and get some meat on her bones – then they had a right to know more about her. And since she wasn't eager to talk to them personally, Ray was delegated party.

_This is one of those situations where I'm really not gonna win, no matter what I say, isn't it?_

_Got it in one._

_Jubilee. Not helping_, 'said' Scott. Even when nobody could see him, they felt his frown traversing the psi-ways into their brains.

_Jeez, sor-ry. Excuse me for breathing, over here, oh Fearless Leader._

_It's his raison d'être. He leads, therefore he is_, Bobby sniggered.

_If it's not too much trouble_, Jean put in, _can we please get on with it? I'm going to need the mother of all Tylenol tablets when this is over._

She felt Scott's concern spike, but it was quickly submerged in the rush of mental voices.

_One at a time, one at a time! Evan, you first._

Evan was concise. _Real name._

_Vital stats, _Ray replied, somehow managing to infuse his 'voice' with a monotone drone not unlike Cerebro's operating system, _Real name, Maria Callasantos. Age, somewhere in mid to late teens -_

_Well that's specific. You want to be any more vague, R-man?_

_Hey, Morlock policy was don't get caught and don't ask questions. If you're after Feral's bio and life history from before the tunnels then you're asking the wrong guy, 'E-man'._

_Hey dude, less with the sarcasm, 'kay? _Evan didn't sound hurt as much as uncomfortable. Kurt had once tried to turn his nicknaming habit back on him, with the result that Evan ended up in the school councillor's office trying to convince Mr. Fenkman he didn't have a drugs habit.

_You mean you let that wildcat into our house – our home – and you don't know a thing about her? _This from Roberto, who maintained his vague accent even in thought. Though he was completely bilingual, and had been since early childhood, Jean knew his thoughts frequently flipped between English and Portuguese. _Madre de Dios._

_Hey, Bertie, I know plenty about her, _Ray bristled. _Just not that stuff, okay? It's not that different to _**you**_ not telling everyone your entire life story pre-Xavier. Or Scott. Or Kurt. Or Rahne-_

_All right, all right, we get the picture. _Helped by Jean, Scott shoved himself in between them before they dissolved into a total argument. _We're here to get info, not play Spanish Inquisition. And we're definitely not here to fight._

_Jawohl, oh fearless leader._

_Don't even get me started on you, Kurt._

_What? What'd _**I**_ do?_ Nobody had any trouble picturing Kurt with a hand to his heart. It was his best 'who, me?' posture. _I've been a paragon of virtue all day. _**Especially**_ when behind the wheel, I might addl._

_I said not to get me started._

_For the last time, my driving was fine_. The exchange had all the earmarks of a much-played television repeat. _Just because I didn't learn in the US doesn't mean I'm not a capable driver here. European driving isn't so very different, you know, and it's not like I go _**looking**_ for trees to crash into._

_Hey, guys?_ Kitty's mental voice was faint, telling all those who heard it that she was distracted. Those who knew what was claiming her attention shuddered. _Li'l more on-topic stuff, please?_

_Look, whatever the country, you do _**not**_ follow a car that close to the bumper bar! _Scott gave in and trod the beaten verbal track.

_I wasn't all _**that**_ close..._

_Kurt, I could read the guy's speedometer._

_Yowch! _The image of a hand burned by a baking tray filled the ether. _Hey, guys_, Kitty snapped, _either take it somewhere else or keep quiet. I didn't tune into this channel for macho bitching. You're throwing me off my groove._

_Since when did 70s jargon make a comeback? _Jubilee asked sweetly.

_Since she found a cookbook published in 1972 and dusted it off for cookies with which to pacify Logan, _Evan deadpanned. _Ain't that right, K-girl?_

Everyone was already familiar with the chewing out Kitty had received, if not totally sure of the reason why. Preoccupation with Feral had meant that Kitty's misdemeanour, when ascertained as not life threatening or likely to affect anyone else, had been pushed aside. Scott had sounded like he wanted to pry more, but pulled back at the last second with some visible effort. Still, they all knew she had been put on a punishment detail that made the aftermath of Kurt's Carnival 'date' with Tabitha look like a vacation in the subtropics.

_It's not _**that**_ old. And once you convert the imperial measurements to metric, it's not that hard to follow, either. Um, a quart of milk is more than 100 centilitres, right?_

Roberto sighed. _Am I the only one who wants to get back on topic?_

Jean winced, flexing her mental fingers and gathering the various voices closer. _No. This switchboard is getting tired, so I urge you to hurry it up, people, unless you want the phone company to cut you off for not paying your bills._

Amara piped up. She'd been quiet for most of the discussion, owing to the need to make sure she didn't fire an arrow into a person-shaped target. She had stayed at school for archery club, a new venture by Bayville High that was proving quite popular with the student body. Amara was already quite a proficient archer, having learned the skill as a princessly duty back on Nova Roma, but she enjoyed the company of likeminded people. Nobody at the Institute was trained in archery – not even Logan.

The only other absentee from the mansion was Rogue, who had been quite snippy when first contacted. She had softened when told the news of Feral, but been so preoccupied with what Jean surmised was a shopping trip that she was excused and promised an update later.

_Is this 'Feral' a pleasant creature? _Amara asked.

No reply.

_Ray? _Jean prodded.

_Yo, R-man!_

_Huh? _Ray's consciousness faded back in.

Jean felt guilty about not noticing it had gone. Still, she reasoned, she was watching over a lot of individual minds. And they did all insist on moving around.

_Sorry. Feral woke up. Apparently she doesn't trust a burrito as real food if it's not half rotten. This Sad Pudding stuff is good, by the way._

The X-Men chose not to comment, instead repeating Amara's question. Jean felt Jamie's signature swell a little with pride.

_You mean, is she friendly? _Ray abridged. _Ummm… not in the … conventional sense of the word._

_She _**has**_ already attacked several of our people_, Roberto pointed out. _That's pretty suggestive._

_Our people?_ Jubilee repeated. _Since when did we start dividing the world up into sides?_

_Yeah, but suggestive of what? _Bobby said over her. _Someone who just doesn't trust other people, or someone who'd carve out our gizzards and eat them for breakfast? Or even none of the above. Maybe human haggis is more her thing._

_She's not some savage beast_, Ray defended, suddenly huffy.

_Could've fooled me_, sniped Roberto. _I think Logan and Scott might disagree with you there. Mr. McCoy, too. She attacked all of them without provocation, and there wasn't much hesitation about doing them serious damage._

_I _**can**_ speak for myself, you know_, Scott interjected, but he was ignored.

Ray grumped. _I'll admit, she has some problems, but she's not a total psycho. Not the Feral I knew. Her mutation shortened her fuse a little, sure, but she's not vicious. She's just been through a lot, is all. You think any of you guys would come up smelling of roses after what she's seen? She didn't _**know**_ you were friends before. Now she does. She's fine, I swear it. And I'll stick by her until she can recognise everyone as friends on her own. I'll teach her that this place is… good._

_Yeah, well, you still won't catch me going near her if the sun isn't out._

Something approaching a growl reverberated along the psi-ways. _You're _**so**_ asking for it, Bertie…_

_If we can't act like civilised adults, can we at least stop scratching and biting like squabbling puppies? _Jean pleaded, only half joking. Arguing heightened emotion, which made it more difficult to lock onto many minds and _stay _locked onto them. _Roberto doesn't mean to offend, Ray, he's just concerned. Right, Roberto? You have to admit that Feral's track record isn't exactly encouraging._

_Yeah, well, I know her better than you guys do. She's okay, honestly. But if it'll make you feel better, I promise not to leave anyone alone with her for the foreseeable future, 'kay? She listens to me. She trusts me. All I've got to do is make her understand stuff about the Institute being a safe place, and we're all set._

Jean clamped down on Roberto's brewing retort, sending a private message for him not to inflame the situation again. He replied with a rebellious grumble, but complied.

_Erm, not to dump a bucket of water over the warm fuzzies_, Jubilee interrupted, _but won't school get in the way of that plan? Ray, You'll have to leave Feral's side sooner or later._

_I'll work something out. The Professor knows what's going on. He'll help me set something up with the school – pull a few strings with Principal Kelly and junk. Maybe… maybe I could be home tutored for a while. Yeah, that'd work._

Jamie squeaked. _Great idea! I mean, Mr. McCoy already teaches me. And the Professor must be called that for a reason, right?_

Ray's satisfaction at this conclusion radiated out in waves. _Yup. Problem solved._

_We'll see_, said Scott, authority fairly dripping from his tone.

_Jeez, Scooter, you sound so _**old**_ when you say that._

_Jubilee, unless that jacket of yours happens to be laser-resistant, I suggest you don't call me Scooter. Ever again._

_

* * *

_

Rogue was pissed off. In fact, she was more than pissed off. This was pissed of squared – no, it was pissed off _cubed_. How dare Risty do this to her. How _dare_ she!

Rogue had spent most of the trip to the mall talking, finding Risty a good listener, as always. Her mouth, usually clenched to keep her secrets behind her teeth, ran free. Sometimes she came perilously close to babbling a la Kitty, but she reasoned that was just the vestiges of Kitty's mind hanging around.

By the time they arrived and clambered out of Risty's pea-green Nissan, Rogue had been quite at ease, and agreed without fuss to go looking for a new pair of shoes for her friend. Risty freely admitted that her biggest sin was a well-turned piece of footwear, and could spend hours pottering around inspecting heels and leather stitching. She was delighted not to have to drag Rogue kicking and screaming into the Clothing Emporium.

Then Jean had called up, dropping herself straight into Rogue's frontal lobe. Risty, thankfully, was poking around the boots section when contact was made, and didn't have to witness Rogue's expression suddenly switch from neutral to shocked to furious. There had been no explicit orders for her to go home right after school. They had no right to intrude without so much as a by your leave. Having her outing infiltrated by her teammates bordered on outright invasion, and it was not until Jean relayed news of their newest arrival that the lines around Rogue's eyes smoothed out again.

Yet that was not what had caused Rogue's current foul mood. Jean had pulled out after a while, promising to update her on any breaking news as soon as she got home. She seemed to sense that Rogue, like any of the Institute students, needed this bit of time away from the whole mutant thing – an hour or two where she could just be Rogue-the-teenager instead of Rogue-the-X-girl.

No, the reason for her outrage was held out in front of her and two seconds away from being thrown over the curtain.

Somehow, while her attention was divided between shopping and 'talking' with Jean, Rogue had allowed herself to be manhandled into a changing cubicle with this … thing. Folded up, it looked like something regurgitated by a drunken elephant while a mass of incontinent pigeons flew overhead. It didn't get much better stretched out and scrutinised from several angles.

"Rogue?" Risty called from outside. She had placed herself on guard after bundling the other girl in. "Talk to me. Have you tried it on yet?" A pause. "Are you okay? You seemed kind of spacey before."

"I'm fine. And no, this ain't gonna happen, Risty."

"You're not even going to _try_ it?"

"No." The rejection in Rogue's voice was firm. The rejection was very firm. The rejection was acorn-clenched-between-buttocks firm. This, it said decisively, is out of the question. It is not even close to happening. Nu-uh. Never. Not even if God Himself descends into this changing room and commands it. Not even if He says 'please'.

Risty's voice, on the other hand, held a definite pout. "You didn't make much argument when I showed it to you."

_Probably because I was bickerin' with Jean over missin' dinner. _But obviously Rogue couldn't use the argument in her defence. Instead, she said, "It looks different in this light."

"Different is not a bad thing. Oh, go on, Rogue. Please? It's such a little thing."

"Exactly. Actually, it's more than just a li'l thing. It's an incredibly _tiny_ thing, which is why I ain't wearin' it." She reached for the coat-hanger. "I got some dignity, y'know. An' the world don't need to see that much of my thighs, neither." Coming from a girl who habitually went to school in miniskirts, this was really saying something.

Risty didn't answer for a moment. Rogue had half the thing back on its hanger before her unmistakable brogue came again.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, here."

Something thrust through the curtain and into Rogue's bumbling hands. She was about to protest about the lack of privacy, despite still being fully dressed, but the hand was gone again.

"Risty!"

"What? You haven't got anything I haven't seen before. I have a full-length mirror in my bedroom. Now put those on if you insist on being such a prude. Honestly, the way you carry on you'd think there was some law against showing a bit of skin, or something."

Rogue swallowed her reply. _Yeah. Or sumthin'._

The new article turned out to be a pair of tights covered in a staircase of thick horizontal stripes in alternating black and purple. The fabric was not overly thin, but neither was it approaching the 100-denier mark. Rogue ran it absently though her fingers, before remembering she was supposed to be cleaning up to put this stuff back where it came from.

Except…

"I thought y'all weren't allowed to try this kinda thing on. Unsanitary."

"I asked the assistant. Just don't tear out the protective stickers in the crotch and we're rolling. Now hurry up in there before I get so bored my arms drop off."

Sighing, and knowing how tenacious Risty could be when she got an idea into her head, Rogue started to strip. Avoiding looking at her too-pale skin in the mirror, she pulled on the stripy tights first, being careful not to rake her fingernails through them. She had just painted them this morning, but the fresh varnish was already chipped into little peaks and troughs. She had to be careful not to ladder the things before she'd even bought them.

Not that she intended to buy them – oh _no_. This was just an exercise in Risty-indulgence. Once she'd done a quick twirl she could claim it was uncomfortable and they could flee to the make-up counter, or even out of this store altogether.

Next came the dress. Rogue slipped it over her head, mildly irritated it wasn't scratchy or too small. The burgundy fabric was resolutely smooth, and slid over her with a breathy noise not unlike a soft sigh. She tugged it down, clipping and fastening where she needed to, and then straightened up to survey the damage.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Rogue? Are you dead in there?"

_Wow. _

Rogue twisted, searching for some flaw in the back.

The dress flowed over the curve of her hips, gently fanning out when it reached the rise of her buttocks. Delicate swirls of reddish-purple twined in and out in a marble-like effect. Beneath, the stripy tights matched in an impossible way, as if they had come with it instead of being plucked from a random shelf to pacify a grumpy teenager. Somehow the hemline didn't seem quite so high when set against them. Rogue flattened the front with the palms of her hands to check.

Around her waist was a string of glossy wooden beads that sat slightly to one side, resting on her left hip. Added to this, a large scoop of fabric had been removed from the top, but the plunging neckline had been covered over with a ream of intricate black lace up to her throat, which gave more than a hint of the pale skin beneath, but acted as a protective covering. The long sleeves emulated the skirt, fanning out around her wrists in some unidentifiable Neo-Romantic style.

It was as if the outfit had been designed especially for her.

_Wow._

"Rogue, if you don't answer me in three seconds, then I'm coming in to -"

"Shhh."

"It speaks! What on Earth are you doing in there, finishing the Unfinished Symphony?"

"Preenin'," Rogue replied simply.

"Oh. Well, then, don't leave me in suspense. Let's have a butchers."

She faltered. "A what?"

"A butchers. A gander. A _look_, you silly mare. Come out here and let me see it on you. I want to know if my fashion sense works on other people."

Rogue took a last look in the mirror and pulled the curtain aside, stepping out uncertainly. It was entirely possible that things were all in her head, and she looked as hideous as she'd first assumed she would. The sight that greeted her compounded this thought.

In the cubicle opposite a woman was parading to her partner, who looked bored out of his skull. Her dress was too short for her age, the colour scheme too garish for her skin tone, and she was wearing such an effective push-up bra that her rather saggy breasts sat crazily just beneath her collar bone. She was clearly in the midst of a most appalling Mutton Moment, and seeing her somehow sucked the buoyancy out of Rogue like a drunkard draining a whisky bottle.

She perked up a little when Risty exclaimed, "Oh, it's _perfect_!" and accompanied the exclamation with the necessary expression and hand gestures. "Turn around, turn around, let me see the back!"

Even though she was pleased, Rogue could not bring herself to show it just yet. She was not convinced. After all, Risty was her friend. It was her job to say things to make her feel better about herself.

She sniffed, standing as awkwardly as she could and yanking at the edges of the sleeves. "I feel like I just raided the dressin' up box at the local playgroup."

"Nonsense. You look stunning. Now do as I say and turn around so I can see the back." Risty rotated a finger like an old schoolmarm. "Ooh, the lines on that skirt are done well, aren't they? You can hardly see the stitching. You're making me quite jealous, Rogue."

"You try it on, then."

"Don't be silly. My hair would clash horribly. I'd look like something from the Rocky Horror Show – not a look I wish to foster."

"My underwear shows less of my butt than this hemline."

"Really?" For a moment Risty looked thoughtful. "I might just have to take you past lingerie on the way to the checkout, then."

"You dare!" Rogue warned, infusing her gaze with the kind of carefully cultivated threat Bobby was treated to when planning a new prank. "An' who said I was buyin' it, anyhow? I only put it on to get you off my back."

"If you don't buy it, then I'll get it for you. Rogue, this is just too perfect to let slip by. You'll have all the blokes dribbling into their textbooks if you wear this to school." Risty's smile was as gleeful as if she'd be wearing it herself.

"I don't like attention - "

"Pshaw." She waved an imperious hand. "I don't believe _that_ for a second." Then she tipped her head to one side. "You know, with the right earrings … the gypsy look could be a good one for you. You spend too much time trapped in the 60s."

Rogue opened her mouth. Then she shut it again. A long moment passed. Finally, she shot her friend a weary look laced with resignation. "You're gonna spend your hard earned cash on this thing no matter what I say, aren'tcha?"

"Possibly." The tone of the reply was Risty-speak for 'you bet your Southern-fried arse I am'. "Friends don't let friends wear frumpy wardrobes, and yours has been straying that way lately. Now, hurry up in there and get dressed. I'm hungry, but I'm not leaving this store until you're properly kitted out."

* * *

To Be Continued…

* * *

Yup, it's **Review Reply **time, again.

Hey, **Shadow Diva**. Wasn't expecting to see you on this fic, but I'm mightily pleased you decided to drop by. Thanks for the good wishes, too. I'll pass them on to my immune system.

I reckon Kitty _made _it to meet with Lance, **Angel of the Fallen Stars**, but others probably used it after they figured out it was there. Kitty still gets most of the blame for making it in the first place, though. I'm glad you liked Tabby. I feel she's underappreciated by the fandom, and barely investigated except to pair her up with someone. It used to be Kurt, but these days you can't go two steps without falling over a Tabitha/Amara fic. And I'm afraid I'm not sure what you meant by 'hoel', babs. you'll have to explain that to me before I can answer you properly.

You'll find out, **SperryDee**. Eventually. And here's some more Risty, just for you.

Eep! I love getting long reviews from you, **Me**, so rambly and fun. Now let's see what today's lucky bag has in store for me. 'Siphon' means to draw off. People who are tight-arses siphon petrol from other cars to use in their own, and doctors siphon pus and excess blood from icky wounds to they can see to fix them. 'Consternation' is kind of like worry or anxiety, only a little bit further up the scale. Hee hee, 'poleaxed' is a _great_ word. It means to knock someone out and, literally, lay them flat, like chopping down a pole with a big ax. And wouldn't you like to know what books I'm reading coughHowtoTakeOvertheWorldinFifteenEasyStepscoughcough. It will surely freak people out if you say 'trademark' after it, yes. Aw, lay off. Inever said my grammar was perfect. And equally, lay off for the shortness of the scene. I'm no good at writing Lancitty, as I've stated several times before, so that scene was a real departure for me. I'm sorry it wasn't up to scratch. I _adore _the last Austin Powers movie. Granted, it's the only one I've seen, but still. 'Do you have a little clone inside you?' The movie you asked about is _Tarzan_. Specifically, the line about emotional constipation comes from Tantor the elephant. The three Rs are reading, wRiting and aRithmatic (yes, I know they don't all start with R, but I didn't make the rules up. This is traditional education and pedagogy speaking, which should make us all worry, if you ask me). 'Perennial' means re-occuring, or yearly. You can get perennial plants (usually bulbs more than seeds) that come back year after year without any help. Actually, Sad Pudding is a play on something from the _Teen Titans _cartoon show, which I'd just started watching when I wrote that. My mother attached electrodes to myeyelids when my cheeks were wet /joking. Johnny! Okay then, I shall call you Harry, and you shall be my Harry. You do AS levels? Or did, as the case may be. Good on you. Yes, I did get an A for AS and A2, but I was doing pure English Literature, not a combo Lit and Lang course. You perve on my journal? You know, I allow anonymous comments. You _could _talk to me there if you wanted to. Oh, and can I have some time to work on my dissertation please?

Logan in an apron, hee. I wish there was fanart of that. Him in a pinkapron and _just_ the apron. Hee hee. Don't you think, **Psycho-Neurotically Disturbed**?

Hey, I'm flexible **AzKailani**. Just because I've written Ray/Kitty before doesn't mean it's my OTP (One True Pairing). Unlike much of the fandom, I'm not a 'shipper, which means I can pair together anyone I like, or even pair nobody at all. There's more to fanfic than romance, sayeth I. Mulan I, huh? I loved the first movie. The second one any good, or do we have another _Pocahontas II _or _Stitch the Movie _on our hands?

You _will_ like Tabitha, **Relwarc**. Look into my eyes. Yes, that's it, look deep into my eyes and repeat after me: I live Tabitha Smith. She is interesting and complex and has pretty hair. I am going to write a dozen fics about her complexities... yes. That's it. good little hypno-slave. ;)

Somebody recced me, **Slash Gorden**? Ooh, who? I need to thank them for that. And thank you to you, too, for the review. Happy Scribbler.

Righty-o, **BK13**.

* * *


	13. Contrast of Expectations

**Chapter Twelve **– _Contrast of Expectations_

* * *

It was with some disquiet that Tabby made her way to the Boarding House that she referred to as both home and urine-soaked hellhole. Legions of kids peeled away the closer she got, and by the time she reached the intersection to her street, all those who had exited Bayville High alongside her were gone; picked up by parents, buses, or living in more affluent suburbs.

She kicked at a stone. It bounced off the curb and spun away into traffic where a car went over it, suspension shrieking. When the 'Walk' sign lit up she made a point of waving sweetly to the annoyed driver.

She had deliberately avoided talking to anyone all afternoon – even her teachers. Grunts could be amazingly eloquent, as Logan had taught her during her short tenure with the X-Men. Her lunchtime conversation with Kurt had left her with a groundless unease that had slowly translated into restlessness, until she practically sprinted down the main steps and across the field so she could avoid the parking lot.

Lance had gone to work at Joe's Eatery again, cutting last period to make his shift in time. She neither knew nor particularly cared what Fred, Todd or Pietro had done with themselves. They would come home eventually, when their stomachs told them to. She abruptly remembered one of Grandma Maud's old phrases, her subconscious likening the Brotherhood to button mushrooms because they always turned up at a good meal.

She hadn't thought of her mother's mother in a long while, and was mildly surprised to be doing so now. Grandma Maud had died of a cardiac arrest when Tabby was eight. Tabby had memories of Mrs. Smith buying a black dress and a veil to cover her face, and the long wait in a church she'd never been to, full of people she'd never seen before, while a priest prattled endlessly from the pulpit. With characteristic irreverence, her most abiding memory of the funeral was seeing the priest's face close up when they were all gathered around the grave. He had probably been no more than thirty, but had a scholarly pallor and a huge wiry beard that gave the impression God had stuck his pubic hair on the wrong end.

It didn't sadden Tabby that this was how she remembered the interment. Rather, it intrigued her that her thoughts should turn so resolutely to death and dying, and yet not plunge into complete grimness. She supposed it was a self-protective thing. So long as her thoughts didn't give death any weight, the subject obviously wasn't very serious, and therefore was nothing to worry about. It was a strange way to think about death – the ultimate end and possibly most serious thing in the world – but it suited her. It made dealing with it easier.

She knew why her brain had turned in that direction, of course. Still, she had never known the Morlocks. They were a purely academic thing – a nebulous enclave of thought. She had no real memories of them, only imagined pictures of what they might have looked like based on second hand information. Their passing should have meant nothing to her, like a character in a storybook being killed off – especially since she yet had to deal with how the Boarding House was going to feed itself tonight. That was a much more pressing concern.

Yet her mind kept coming back to the memory of Kurt's face, as he related the fate of a small band of misfits she'd never even met. And what concerned her was not the effect it had had on Kurt – though she wasn't entirely happy about him going all 'I'm a freak and nobody loves me', either. Despite all that had passed between them, all the idle flirting, rule-breaking, and the events that had led up to her leaving the X-Men, she and Kurt were buds. And buds looked out for each other. Therefore, she felt compelled to make the fuzzball feel better about himself, and it was frustrating that psychological issues couldn't be solved by a few boom balls or a quick kick with a size seven boot.

No, it wasn't Kurt's reaction that concerned her most. Rather, it was a small part of her own mind – a tiny corral of doubts and more lofty concerns than where her next meal was coming from. It was the place she'd stored Xavier's mutant-human rhetoric when she ditched the Institute, and now it poked at the rest of her brain with a few unpleasant notions that had taken root during Ms. Vasquez's English class.

The Morlocks had been targeted because they were mutants. They had done nothing more than be born with a few extra strands to their DNA, yet someone had seen fit to take their lives away because of it. No discussion, no warning, do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars.

Until now, Tabby had not really contemplated becoming a target because of her mutancy. She had spent a large part of her life being a target. The reasons were varied – she wasn't a good daughter; she wasn't a bright student; she refused to wholly conform to the status quo; she was female – but being a mutant had never really factored into it.

Sure, just being in Xavier's presence when he was spouting forth meant you couldn't avoid the whole 'human nature doesn't like what it doesn't fully understand' and 'mutants have overtaken humanity, but nobody likes to be left behind' schtick. She _knew_ that when Mutantkind was finally outed – and it would be, of that much she was pessimistically certain – there was a likely chance it would be the new social minority group. Still, somehow the idea that you could be killed for it had never entered her head.

Stupid, really. You could be killed for anything, given the right person had the means. "Your eyes are too blue," "You looked at me funny," "You think you're better than me." People died before their time every day for mundane reasons. It didn't have to be about being different.

It didn't have to be … but it often was.

A sudden chill traced the length of her spine. Tabby found herself racing the last few feet up the driveway, swallowing the unwelcome and overly ponderous thoughts with the adrenaline of sudden physical exertion. She pelted up the steps, fumbled for a key, and dashed inside.

For some reason she slammed the door behind her – not because she felt like pissing the guys off with flakes from the ceiling, but because she'd thought the unwelcome thoughts outside. With the same irrationality that made her sometimes throw salt over her shoulder, she felt like by shutting the door she could lock them out there, out where they couldn't prey on her mind because her mind was in here, safe.

The house echoed with her footsteps. The television was silent. Nobody yelled from upstairs at the slamming door, and no music blared with siphoned electricity. Either those guys not in paid labour were out scrounging grub or … no, they were probably out scrounging grub.

Too buzzed to concentrate properly, Tabby flopped onto the couch, stretching herself across the three threadbare cushions. Her top rode up a little, allowing her stomach to rub against the shabby velveteen. She groped down the back for the remote. Her hand returned with something green and sticky smeared across the knuckles.

"Oh, yuk," she muttered. Then again, louder, alleviating the silence of the empty house with the sound of her own voice. "Yuk! I'm gonna nail Todd's scrawny ass to the _wall_."

Taking advantage of the Power of the Remote Control – something rarely experienced when sharing a house with four males – Tabby pillowed her cheek on her arm and let mind-numbing cartoons fill her brain.

* * *

"So what was so dang funny?"

Risty, previously holding her smile in with a hand, erupted into fits of giggles.

Rogue stared at her, nonplussed.

They had found a table at the back of the food court between plastic palm trees in dire green buckets. Some thoughtful soul had sprayed the trees with pine air freshener, creating an interesting contrast of expectations.

Rogue surveyed her friend, carefully moving her tray away when spittle started to fly. Risty had no compunction about laughing in public – not the reserved, I-know-someone's-watching-me kind of laughter, but the full, head thrown back and gurgling like a drain kind.

"Her name…" she wheezed, before dissolving once more.

They had left the Clothing Emporium with more bags than Rogue had felt comfortable letting Risty pay for. As such, her own purse was now empty and at risk of playing host to moths.

On the flip side, she was now the proud owner of not only the burgundy dress and stripy tights, but a pair of thick-soled black boots with metal clips instead of laces, a selection of fingertip-to-elbow gloves in assorted colours, and a pre-packaged batch of cosmetics they had each bought when cornered by a shop assistant and her perfume spritzer. In truth, these had been more of an escape tactic to get the assistant to leave them alone, but Rogue reasoned that she had needed some new mascara anyway.

They had descended on the food court and the Gut Burger there with all speed, Risty complaining of low blood sugar and a need to ingest fatty calories.

The girl who had served them was an emaciated stick with lipstick and eye shadow – a complete stranger to fried foods. Her nametag had identified her as Candida, which Risty seemed to find absolutely hilarious for some reason. She had stumbled into the seating area, leaving Rogue to follow in bewilderment.

Which brought us to the current moment.

"Y'want a glass of water?" Rogue offered, not sure the diet cokes they'd ordered would be much use.

Risty held up a hand, gave a last carefree gulp, and drew herself up. She ran a hand through her hair, shook her head back, and then it was as though nothing had ever happened. No blotchy cheeks, no make-up tinged tearstains, not so much as a hair out of place. Once again, Risty Wilde was poised and coiffed to perfection.

She popped a French-fry into her mouth and chewed, completely ignoring the curious looks of the other customers. When it became apparent that the show was over, they averted their eyes to their own cooling meals. Risty continued silently eating until the last one had looked away.

"Her name," she said calmly.

"Whose name?"

"The cashier's. Can you _believe_ her parents were so cruel?"

Rogue cut her eyes at the desk and the emaciated stick. "What's wrong with her name?"

"It's Candida. You know – _Candida_." Risty gestured with a French-fry, as though fatty foods could grant sudden intelligence if used like a magic wand. At Rogue's blank look she went on, "As in albicons. As in thrush."

"Risty!"

"What? _I_ didn't decide to use it as a child's name. Why, hello there, won't you come and meet our offspring?" She spoke to an invisible visitor. "This is little Candida. And this is her brother, Non-Specific Urethritis. And _this_," she flourished proudly, "is our eldest; Genital Warts. A fine, strapping bunch, wouldn't you agree?"

Rogue let her forehead hit the palm of her hand. Nobody appeared to be listened to their conversation, for which she was eternally grateful. "I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

"Moi?" Risty pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm the perfect shopping partner."

"Maybe. But tact is sumthin' you gotta work on."

"When the world stops being so funny, I'll start being tactful."

They fell into companionable silence, absorbed by their meals. After a moment, Rogue found her eyes wandering.

There was a toddler in a stroller by the next table. He was clutching a French-fry in each pudgy hand and grinned wetly at her while his mother talked animatedly to a friend.

"And then I said, Daddy; I said, Daddy, if you expect me to be so spiritual then you should expect a little plastic bashing on massages. I can't, I said to him, I simply _can't _have dirty shakras. It's just, y'know, not _done _in the free fucking world, y'know?"

Vaguely disgusted by the mother's conversation, Rogue took a moment to regard the sticky infant. She was not a particularly great fan of small children – which was probably just as well. All the same, this one broke new barriers on the ugly scale. Plus, he was drooling – a hideous thing in her eyes. She knew all toddlers drooled, but this one obviously had a full complement of teeth, so why was he still dribbling like the Jabberwock?

The shreds of Kitty still hanging around her brain summed it up in one word: _Ick_.

Averting her eyes led her to look over Risty's head. On the other side of the quad was one of those ghastly chain stores that tried so hard to look like it wasn't. This one had opted for draping huge metal chains around the window display and painting appalling expressions on all of the mannequins. Two of them seemed to be engaged in some sort of indecent act under a mound of crushed baked bean cans. Had it not been for what they were wearing, Rogue might have brushed over the place like the sticky toddler.

The germ of an idea turned over in her mind.

"Risty."

"Mm?"

"Could you lend me thirty dollars? I'm all out after the Emporium. I'll remember to pay you back, honest."

"I didn't doubt it. And even if you didn't remember, I would've." Risty tapped the side of her head. "Mind like a steel trap, dear – rusty and illegal in thirty-eight states."

* * *

_Yes, I know it was short, but I've been hella busy with university work recently. _

I got the idea of the switchboard from a short published story called 'Up The Hill Backwards', which had Betsy doing pretty much the same thing. Damned ifI can remember the author, though, **Shadow Diva**.

Oh, Logan in just a frilly pink apron! I'm not sure whether to catalogue that imageas the Funniest Thing I've Ever Seen (tm), or Fuel For My Nightmares (tm), **Psycho-Neurotically Disturbed**.

Hey, **Ivan**. Long time nosee. And I wasn't copletely happy with that scene,either (dialogue isn't my strong suit, so a dialogue-heavy scene was always going to be a problem), but unfortunatelythe story had reacheda point where it _needed_lots of the talky-talky in order to progress. Damn fic, taking on a life of its own.

'Smile  
As you find a rhythm  
Working you, slow mile by mile,  
Into your proper haunt  
Somewhere, well out, beyond . . .' - from Casualty: Seamus Heaney

Rogue's one of those characters who's chock-full of ... well, of _character_, lots of interesting facets and shades. And yet, for the most part, the fandom focuses on only one of them - her angstiness. And having a relationship with Remy. Practically every Rogue-centric fic is a variation on the same theme. It drives me nucking futs! Um, but thank you for the review, **Angel**, I appreciate it.

Most people don't seem to bother with Ray at all, **SperryDee**. Which is just plain wrong. Lil' love-muffin deserves some fantime. Um, unless it turns out like the fantim devoted to Romy. In which case I'll keep him all to myself.

Glad you like it, **The Hermione Granger Fanclub**. Although henceforth, do you mind if I shorten your name to just Hermione? Here, you can have some more Rogue n' Risty hijinks to make up for it. Just look above... And for the record, my favourite curse (as in th one I use the most) just has to be 'Hell on a stick', or 'Hell's _bum_!' And 'you silly mare' comes right out of my everyday speak. England is good for swearing. You don't get quite the right emphasis in an American accent. 'Bollocks' or 'bugger' in a US drawl? Not quite, methinks. Although I feel I should be slightly worried that we have so many different words for urine, and incorporate 'piss' into so many curses.

Roberto and Ray are my _boys_, **Slash Gorden**. Although if your name is anything to go by, you might appreciate their appearance in UnknownSource's fic 'The Challenge'. Mystique and Barbie Doll Rogue (tm). Now there's something I never thought I'd ever write as a sentence. And Tabby is just plain fun. No question.

Hey, **Azkailani**. How's it shakin'?I despised Pocahontas II. Yes, I know it was a smidge more historically accurate than the first movie, but it also undermined pretty much everything partially redeeming _about _the first movie. So no, Disney sequels don't quite hack it for me. Except for George of the Jungle II, if only for their King Kong parody and explanation for why Brendon Fraser wasn't in it anymore.

I always thought Jean practially kept the aspirin industry intact by herself, **Relwarc**. Esepcially since that boost her abilities got in 'Power Surge'. That's some magic mojo, right there. Snobby!Amara is more InterNutter's creation than mine, but I still prefer her to the insipid version of the show.

_See y'all next time! If I survive my exams to see next time. Help..._


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